This is what I saw
A young girl -Just a child, standing on one of the stones.
This etheric figure, so pure in her beauty, holding a strange object and smiling at me sardonic smile
with no compassion.
She is pregnant, bearing a child for the One-Horned God.
Walking unwillingly the cold corridors of Inverted Palace.
Her reverence rest upon the fatigue of unchanging days spent in silence.
Apathy of all.
We who watch her sorry wandering learn to know that this cannot be - A child born into empty arms,
the embrace of the soon-to-be-dead-mother.
And when the Beast returns, it means only another orgy of violence and acrimony.
Circle neverending.
The darkness raping the sweet sunlight.
Pearls given to the swine.
The world full of ravenous bastards.
The children dressing themselves for a funeral feast.
The politicians eating the shit of angels.
This is it.
This all.
The mystery of subsistence.
Like Adam and Eve in their cheap paradise, tasting the fruits of Passion,
milk from the breasts of Lilith. This is the true Forbidden Fruit,
this gift of Witchcraft.
We are returning to paradise. Crawling back into the lifeless wombs of our mothers.
To dwell there.
Hidden enjoyments. Pleasures of new-born love. The first time you touch the purity of a cadaver. Haunting trips
to ancient graveyards where the stench of death is still present.
Under the wicked eye of moon there truly is nothing so rich and tender than the corpse of someone who never felt
carnal fulfillment when alive. Feel no fright to join this beautiful experience of necrophilia, because secrets
hunger for solutions.
Funereal mind games practised in quiet rooms of satanic boarding schools, where boys become men, caressing
each other again and again.
I am so glad to be one with you my appalling father, in the eve of my first exposure of secrets.
Rivers running upstream, back to the mountains where Gods guard the mortal world.
Words of simplicity covered with mysteries. Hiding the truth behind symbols of old age.
Secrecy and illusion. Bullshit written in golden letters. Poetry you call it, and how I do love this poetic
playground. I among others raising myself to the class of adepts -Keepers of the keys to the Treasure-House of
noble mysteries. The urns containing the ashes of the brains of great men. Mere insects.
It all begun when I was just an infant, and nothing more than a mindless easygoing fool, without knowledge
whatsoever. The first step was the understanding of withering -how we all have the destiny of turning to dirt.
Should you want to follow me, break the chains of this useless plane of reality where everything is controlled by
laws of coercion. Let your dreams rule.
Turning to the moon.
Turning to the sun