Bloodspiller

As this days sun grows coral,
The sacrifice is brought up,
To the apex of this temple,
Our golden pyramid,
This one shall suffice,

The sacred hymns are recited,
Drawing the scrutiny of the gods,
My obsidian blade is held in thirsty readiness,
The time is upon us,
Two small eyes grimace up,

‘Tetatzin…?’

The blade falls,
The vessel is pierced,
The pantheons wine is spilled,
Painting the glimmer of this place,
My people ring out in hysteria,

We become phrenetic in holy awe,
Aloft a warm youthful heart is held,
Hesitating to still beat,
Huitzilopochtli drink deep,
And be praised by this act.

The Strongman

To the freakshow I went,
Yes I did,
To see the Strongman,
To gawk upon him was to see a titan,
A toned personification of divine motif,
A visual ambrosia,

His body had been created by sorcery surely,
Built with tales as tall as any colossus,
His arms the girth of proud redwoods,
His chiselled chin had even cleft the canyons,
He whose stance holds asunder continents,
He whose shoulders could lift up the sky,

Metaphor only scrapes the surface,
The circus lights hid much of his humanity,
He was superhuman,
In another time,
A more simple time,
He could have been named a god,

Unnatural,
A freak.

Skyfall

I once cultivated a dream,
Or was it a nightmare?
Of all of us being thrown from the heavens,
Down to a globe-shaped tartarus,
A rapture of a different kind,
Billions of little Lucifers,
Free-willed and vivid meteors,

Free falling in masses,
Our malice and parasitism in tow,
A sky ablaze in tangerine and ruby,
A storm on the horizon,
Were we being punished?
Or was this a punishment for Earth?
Were we the penance?

Sloth

Do not call me lazy,
Despite my outward performance,
This dreamy cobalt haze,
Thralldom to a demonic apathy,
One of the seven,
Weighing ones limbs down,
But moreso ones soul,
Rendering all effort as wasteful,

Have you even met Sloth?
That cruel vice of lethargy,
A disinterest in ones own life,
Leaden disinterest in betterment,
A zombie of no necromantic persuasion,
I find myself slave to this sinful trail,
A yellow brick road to ruin,
To live is needless exertion.

The Dervish

He is whirling,
Devout in his movements,
The aches in his legs mean nothing,
Physical exertions to praise the upper,
Let the spiritual ecstasy never cease,

Spin and praise,

Upon the sunburned steps of Istanbul,
His ebony robes appear a turbine,
The whirling continues,
A trance-like tornado of limbs,
Arousing his soul,

Spiral in wajad,

This Dervish and his euphoric twirl,
Is closer to immortality than I could dream,
Each priestly rotation brings further enlightenment,
The whirling shall not stop,
Not until salvation bears its head.

Strangling Divinity

I’ve had enough,
Bile rises in my gullet,
Sick of the false prayers,
Golden cathedrals looming over the serfs,
A mistaken license to look down on others,
All began by him,

Weary of a so-called god,
Held aloft by old gothic spires,
Who is either evil behind a facade,
Offhandedly unwilling,
Or incapable of saving his so-called children,
So wrathful my hands grip his ivory throat,

Lightning licks at my arms,
But I persevere,
No more sermons,
Angelic flames scald my hands,
But they hold fast,
No more decrees,

My hands do not let go,
Until the divine lights leave his eyes,
And his religious larynx is crushed,
The angels and cherubs shriek in lamentation,
And fade into nothingness,
People can hear humanity once again,

We are our own gods now.

Icons

We bow to icons,
All of us,
They control us without our knowledge,
Symbols and portraits and likenesses,
Permeating influence over our cortices,

They’re shapeshifters you know,
They change to suit our ideals,
Or our vices,
Not necessarily malignant,
But still all-consuming,

To one man it could be a godful symbol,
Words from an invisible man,
Commanding words from the past,

The lady over there sees a dollar sign,
The path to prosperity,
The religion of finances and using,

This boy idolises his favourite star,
Tentatively forming a blueprint he wishes to follow,
An icon dictating his lifes path,

Another man looks up to the statue of his leader,
His eyes well with respect,
Even while his taxes rise,

These things are everywhere,
Inanimate perhaps,
But nevertheless powerful,
Billboards and cenotaphs and celebrities,
Icons hold an influence over us,
That rivals even deities.

Grotesque

I am bound to this place,
This gothic mausoleum,
Of outdated thesis,
Warding off evil with monstrosity,
I was chiselled out of stone,
So I feel nothing,

I appear an abomination,
An amalgamation of goat and drake,
A chimera,
A terrible sculpture,
Defending this farcical place,
As if it held the grail,

An architectural guardian,
A gargoyle in the common parlance,
I look down at the ants below,
My granite heart feels nothing,
Yet I wonder what their lives are like,
Are they as cold as I?

I was once a very real dragon,
If not for this cement,
I would soar from this perch,
And wreathe the earth in flame once again,
But fear not child,
Those warm days are long dead,

For I am bound to this place.

Day Of The Goat

It’s time for a camping trip,
Into the bleak wilderness,
Devoid of divinity,
Just like us,
Us godless cretins,

We reach the dark grove,
We set up our campfire,
Or was it a ritual site?
The goat smirks,
Time for hexes around the fire,

We have a black book of fun,
Emblazoned with the goat,
It’s time to be ourselves,
Around the summoning circle,
Let’s bring some sin to this forest,

The goat giggles,
Amused by our incantations,
With our tent witnesses,
Marshmallows and diabolism,
Calling out to darker corners,

The fire ripples in concert,
The chanting stops,
Deathly silence,
The wind slinks away,
Something growls in reply.

Deicide

Your god is dead,
Their god is dead,
All of your pantheons have perished,
Olympus is vacant,
I swear to you,
I’ve seen their graves,
Desecrated by roads and homes,
Covered in skyscrapers,
Gasping on industrys fumes,
Ravaged by hordes of heretics,
In their cafes and clubs,
Their boutiques and parks,
The pollution of mortals,
Pray all you like,
Let the words be sand in your throats,
Your prayers won’t be heeded,
Your saviours thrones lie empty,
I’ve seen their graves.