The Art of Ritual

	The Art of Ritual and Masquerade line the skin like artificial nerves. Sin is just a trick on niggers broken on the wheel of fate. Shackled to what never was... what never will be. Haunted again and again by the ghosts of a murdered conscience. Where sex is now an act of Murder. The Noose looms... I feel like I'm being crushed under the immense gravity of all the dead buried on top of me. Punished again and again for the crimes of my mother my father, our brothers and lovers those fuckers. Crimes against Nature Crimes against Reason That fetish for Hate fucking... The smell of a sick cunt brings the sick fucks around every time... And there I go again... Delirious spasms Toxic hallucinations of all the beautiful young soldiers who have come to soil my battlefield with their heavy artillery pumping into me like bullets fired at point blank range anointed with the hot molten lead which would mingle with the blood and cum letting it flow letting it flower into small muddy puddles at my bound feet Whipped into ritual frenzy by blood sucking fuckers who practice Sex as a Black Mass, Witchcraft, Wicca... Seduced by mirrors, Tarot, Slight of Hand into the Harem sucking in the poison of others. That perfume of Death...of Blood. The beauty of the Wounds perpetrated, perpetuated... Not ever able to get far enough away from the inside of the body. From the slow rot which takes root...sick in the center of every single cell. Contagions multiplying in upon themselves. Muscles loosening. The Flesh withers. The delicious languor of Disintegration. I can smell in coming. Like fallout from some terrible explosion, scattered by the wind. A Siren sings out calling me...recognize the song from the tombs... It's calling you Ricocheting off the raw wounds. Wounds, which will never, ever heal.