On the scream of mountain The fetid people of Blight Grasp the hands of their worshipers And sing the songs of Nor. Fine, the grasps of armance In the piece of mind Which seethes from the mountain Upon the field of Worship Explain the trice of Coherency? "Beat The Arms Out!" Slice the hands of worshipers Who cryge in the bitter foul of Night. Flow from the back The expectancy is made Blend the furrows of life To cryge the men of worship Misery will follow Escape the Velocity Of the piece of mind Incessant. Grasp at Fuck. The bitter disillusions of wrath Seize the calm of misery Expunging peace. Light the place of Empty Exscream upon the froth of night "The peace is done." for now is Fuck. Blend, again, the people of Mercy. Cryge, again, for peace And for the palettes of senselessness Forego utter chaos. And now the peace be with the worshipers of Cryge Who, again, expunge the senselessness of Misery.
Back to the Poetry page.