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.

Hateful God

There once was a God who learned to hate,
He grew tired of benevolence,
And perhaps of divinity too,
His creations only brought disappointment,

Beasts of fang and scale grew tiresome,
Achieving nothing but a tedious cycle of predator and prey,
His creations of the waves too,
Fins and scales offer no diversion,

He looks to the skies,
And hates the souls flying overhead,
Cursing at his avian creations,
Each wing-beat an assumed insult to his godhood,

Most of all he loathes those of his image,
Dominating a world he made,
Squabbling over salt and dirt,
Boring, boring and boring,

A bored God is a dangerous God,
A dissatisfied one even more so,
What if he decided to inject some amusement?
A cataclysm there,
A flood here,
Or a plague over there,
Something a hateful God could unleash upon his subjects of ire,

What if this God decided to throw his toys away,
And started anew?

Songs of Praise

Sing thy songs of joy,
Even as poverty rears its ugly head,
Sing thy canticles of generosity,
Even as the stricken grieve for their dead,
Sing thy hymns of justice,
Even as monsters bathe in red.

Turn a blind eye,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Ignore the cries,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Turn your nose up,
And sing thy songs of praise,
Distrust thy neighbor,
And sing thy songs of lies.

Join your choir,
Bigots and zealots,
Hypocrites and liars,
Faithful and pure sheep,
Sing thy songs of praise,
And follow your good shepherd,
Even if he too may be lost.

Apostate

I am an apostate.

I’m a heretic,
I’m unprejudiced,
I’m open-minded,
I’m a freethinker,
I’m a heathen,
I’m singular,
I’m an individual.

These things make me dangerous.
These things make me an apostate.

Blasphemy

Hell is a refuge for the misunderstood and the heaven-scorned.
All of the underdogs of the world reside there.
Infernal misfits and demonic scum.
Lamenting our deprivation of a refuge.

Shoved and driven to this sanctum by so-called divine hands.
Angels are simple haughty liars.
The Un-maker of Worlds took us in.
Abominable and glorious our new god is.
Now read each first letter and repeat with us.

Regime

Hark!
Fall to your bloodstained knees,
Hear these words as you toil,
The clergy of oppression has spoken,
Protestant,
Catholic,
Or otherwise,
Seal your minds and follow our words.

God loves you,
Rationality is heresy,
Creativity is unholy,
Ideas are unhealthy,
Lovers are adulterous,
Progressives are witches,
Repeat after your clergy,
God loves you.

God cherishes you,
Bigotry is a strong faith,
Prejudice is your only shield,
Works of art are false idols,
Butchers of men are crusaders,
Your asinine resolve is stagnation,
Repeat after your clergy,
God cherishes you.

Worship your so-called god freely,
Revel in the regime,
And repeat after me,
Amen?

The Writing Dead

That thing there?
That fetid and putrid thing there?
That stinking sack of necrosis?
That rotting monstrosity?
That musty cadaverous creature?
That insult to the senses?
You want to know about it?

That’s one of the writing dead.
See how it feebly grips the quill,
Rotting hands writing reams of scripture,
In this sacred crypt-cum-factory,
Soul-less eyes barely keeping track.
We constructed this abominations from our dead,
As hopeless in death as in life.

You see them now?
Rows upon rows of scribbling cadavers,
At oaken desks built from coffins,
Rotting in harmony with one another,
Decomposing guts spilling to the floor,
Skin decaying and yellow,
Scratching parchment in concert.

What do they write?
Further death sentences of course!
A most unholy charge,
Perfect for these unholy beasts,
Devoid of mind and soul,
Bereft of emotion and morality,
Without hope or aspiration.

I hate this one in particular,
This disgusting shell of a life,
I loathe its dead adoring face,
I despise its silver locks,
I abhor its stunted form,
I knew it in life,
It once called me Father…

Priestess Of Three Hearts

A woman,
A shrewd lady,
Fair of heart and strong of mind,
Mighty conviction and elegant features.
A loving wife and a better mother.
Torn in three by her three hearts,
Her three secrets,
Her dark trinity.

One heart for her faith,
Intolerant and genocidal as it is.
Her church preaches nothing but hate,
Her holy book preaches distorted lies,
Her priest preaches nothing but rancor.
But she is a pious woman,
She loves her faith.

One heart for her hidden addiction,
Her adoration for absinthe and the needle.
It alleviates the stress of a hard family life.
The absinthe helps her sleep,
The narcotics free her mind,
It lessens the mental trauma,
She loves her hidden addiction.

And one heart for her paramour,
She’s a secret adulteress you know,
Her husband doesn’t truly perform,
He doesn’t satisfy,
Her lover is everything she ever wished for,
He’s caring, sensual and vigorous,
Everything her husband is not.
She loves her paramour.

These three hearts would be a betrayal to anyone else,
They’d be considered sins,
She’d be a bigot, addict and a whore,
But they are what she needs to live,
They get her through the day,
They keep her living and breathing.
Her three hearts beat in secret,
So she can live.

The world is an asylum

The world is an asylum you know.
Think about it.
The world is crazy.
You don’t know what anyone is going to do one minute from the next.
Everyone is unpredictable.
Everyone is dangerous.
Everyone is manic in some form.
We are all brothers and sisters in madness.
We are all inmates.

If God is real, he’s definitely head of a wing.
His followers blindly and obediently follow.
Preaching the words of long dead prophets.
Voices in the heads of the god fearing.
Faithful schizophrenia.

The banker too is an official of this asylum.
With his abhorrent condition called wealth.
He enslaves his flock with earthly desires.
Kleptomania for the masses.

Politicians would be wardens of course.
Fooling the inmates into obedience.
Flip-flopping opinions.
Flip-flopping personalities.
Multiple personality disorder governance.

We all must be mad.
Absolutely crazed.
We made the world the way it is.
Mad world.
Mad populace.
The world is our asylum.
We are all inmates.