I see those priests,
Clergy of every ilk,
Bowing their heads before stones,
Golden saints and bathomet statues,
Friends that don’t talk back,
They’re speaking in tongues,
Evoking this name or that,
Vocalised necromancy,
Who’s to say if their prayers are heeded,
The idols don’t respond,
After all,
How could they?
What is idolatry,
But talking to ghosts?
The people and clergy preach righteousness,
Blame all evil on some fallen angel,
As if all malice is inflicted upon them,
Coming from humanity though,
It drips with hypocrisy,
Like drool from a rabid dogs mouth,
It’s a deficit in responsibility,
Man does not approve of the devils work,
But it was they who gave him the job,
Gave him his horns,
With their idle hands and dark thoughts,
Arms deals and genocides,
But alas,
I say this not to absolve Lucifer,
Simply to enlighten,
That in all his infernal majesty,
He is but an accomplice,
And we are on his shoulder.
I heard tell of a cult,
They awoke from an awful dream,
Induced by some story book,
And built a priest out of pig iron,
A facsimile of an orderly man,
Fuelled by a furnace of white-hot delusion,
This automaton follows that same book,
On repeat he recites litany from his speaker mouth,
And baptises babes with his steel fingers,
This righteous robot,
An ivory robe stitched to his metal skeleton,
Cheap clanging between pews,
He was made from fear and thrifty deposit,
But mineral has no heart,
Iron holds no soul,
With no understanding of that book of myths,
Dare not look under his frock,
That’s where they put the plot holes.
Throughout this thousand year war,
Numberless threads have been severed,
Both political and carotid,
Every fall gives rise to a cult,
A coven of worms,
A morbid congregation drawn together,
Each elongated creature both priest and disciple,
Each slain prince or pauper,
Becomes a temple of writhing masses,
Another prone parish of rot,
Erected on putrescent pillars,
Ribcages holding up their necrotic chapels,
Flesh is chewed away in ritual feasts,
Marrow supped like wine from bone,
These cultists are no fiends though,
It’s simply the way of the world,
Entropy and taxes being the only certainties,
Even the most triumphant and grand of us,
Shall be naught but a temple for the worms,
Little more than grisly alms,
Meat for the cult.
A virus has spread rapidly betwixt populations,
Not of the medical slant,
But one of conditioning,
That green corruption,
A religion of dollar notes and bankrolls,
Worship of excess,
We are converted at birth,
The nickel and cotton are the priests of this cult,
An emerald plague,
We submit ourselves to their prestige,
Their amassment,
It pervades every facet of our lives,
From the crib to the crypt,
The slum up to the manse,
Yet this is no sacred belief system,
It’s a creed laid upon viridian mandates,
It’s capitalism,
It’s greed or starvation.
I once spent an evening with an angel,
And heavenly she was,
Aside from some goetic tattoos here and about,
But something transpired,
A force took hold of her,
The conversation turned increasingly esoteric,
Her words became sulphuric heat,
Forked tongues in each breath,
Onyx veils covered her eyes,
Stifling any humanity,
Her face became a mask,
Contorted and almost pliable,
An unknown presence lay behind it,
A baneful weight,
A malevolence,
The air felt heavy in her presence,
Like breathing in spiteful ash,
I asked her what she was,
She grinned,
And those were no longer human fangs.
Have you seen that man?
Stood plentifully bestrewn in crimson petals,
Within a garden of fresh corpses,
A crusader amongst broken innocents,
He’s a killer like any other,
But sanctioned by those lofty spires,
A good holy soldier,
In place of prayer,
He commits to flagellation,
Pain weaving betwixt discipline,
He hears voices in the dark,
They come from dusty books,
A tome that claims divinity,
A higher morality touted in its pages,
What began as a good and humble life,
Was dismantled piecemeal by fear and hate,
Xenophobia and bigotry written as commandments,
Seeing jihads in all directions,
Knives at the windows,
The sermons were twisted to command,
And so he strikes.
There is tell of a fallen angel,
Feathers replaced with horns,
Some epitome of spite,
And of this we are taught to fear,
Lauded as some ultimate enemy,
But I say different,
The devil is an amateur,
Way out of his infernal depth,
Ultimate evil sits in coffee shops and sips lattes,
A creature as studious as it is destructive,
Whose ingenuity has moulded countless systems of abuse,
It chokes the land not in lies but toxic waste,
The devil should just retire,
Last I checked we wore serpent skins,
Extinction is just in a days work,
Even Lucifer ought fear the mailed fist of man,
Both in location and scale of evil,
Humanity is punching down.
In a red and arid land far away,
An attack is mounting,
An assault on feminine autonomy,
A patriarchal drake,
Calling itself a law,
Summoned in a circle marked with quills,
Stand firm sisters and mothers,
This beast can be fought,
Nothing can burn your choice,
You are might,
You are freedom,
The summoners of this creature know this,
Jeeringly they call themselves a supreme court,
These men think themselves puppeteers,
Longing to travel back in time,
To more ignorant years,
When fiction ruled lives,
Theocracy slivering out of the cracks,
You can not back down from this,
Your bodies are your own,
Ginsburg is behind you,
Stand firm ladies,
They will not take your strength,
Your sovereignty.
They expected worship,
Praying by the riverside was never enough,
Your exaltations not exuberant enough,
You had not bled enough,
Your knees not nearly scalded enough,
You are too free,
How dare you practice prayer unbridled?
They demand more,
Always more,
Those people from the spires,
Those who talk to clear skies,
They need you,
So an aquatic conversion must be performed,
Directed by a man in white,
The preacher forces your head down,
The river takes you,
A loving embrace,
Currents trying to warn you,
Drowning you before their holy water does,
But they take you from the river,
Into a set of invisible manacles,
This is an incarceration of a new kind,
The binding not of the wrists,
But of the soul,
How dare you practice prayer unbridled?
How dare you practice liberal heresy?
Freedom of spirit is a sin,
That man-made book says so,
The river could not save you,
Its waters muffled by echoing sermons,
Liberty drifts away.
WorldofHarley 