1. |
God Hand
04:17
|
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|
See the man
cursed by the God Hand,
born of a corpse
into a life of violence,
mindless and meaningful.
He followed the white hawk
with the egg of the king—
the crimson behelit
and the devil’s own luck.
The Idea of Evil laid his
destiny
before him:
cursed by fate
and a puppet
in the hands of incomprehensible will.
How lucky was Lucifer
in his time?
The bearer of light
cast into hell.
And how did his followers fair
when his rebellion came to naught?
Could it have been any other way?
In this world
is man able to possess anything
more solid
than a dream?
Before the end
he will kill hundreds
—the innocent and
the righteous and
the guilty—
and he will suffer and he will love.
The brand bleeds
down his neck,
the struggler.
The story is already written
whether we read it or not.
Yet reality is even more cruel
than the God Hand,
for no malice guides our destinies
and the Idea of Evil is a fiction.
In this world
there is only cosmic indifference
and scales we cannot fathom.
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2. |
The Maw
06:26
|
|||
|
I stare into the jaws of existence
and gaze upon the maw.
Teeth stained black
with our accumulated remnants,
iterations and reiterations
of the true fellowship.
God sits in his luminous hell
and watches his reflections below:
legions of future corpses
marching down the gullet;
chaos at feast
today
on the carrion of
tomorrow.
Here is his creation, made in his image:
its horror covered with metaphor,
the churning violence
rationalized
beneath the language of the mundane.
“God is in his heaven,
All is right with the world.”
Yet I hear the infants cry
in the graveyard of our creators,
For they, too,
look upon those jaws from inside.
Swaddled in their first coffins,
their primal bawling
reverberates throughout the
yawning cavern.
Do those screams
reach their parents’ ears?
Does their significance
register with the new gods,
their creators
in their own lustrous purgatories?
They say
the maw of hell is gaping;
the maw of death, ravenous,
and insatiable.
They say
the night is dark
and full of terrors.
They say
long is the way
and hard,
that out of hell
leads up to light.
And yet I hear the cries.
I hear
the agonized wailing
of the next crop of
lottery winners,
waiting to be stoned
by their neighbors.
And I wonder:
what does that say
about ‘them’?
About the night?
The way?
The maw?
I stare into the jaws of existence
and witness chaos at feast.
|
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The Cult of Grinning Martyrs
Pessimist Black Metal from the United States
"There is nothing to do.
There is nowhere to go.
There is nothing to be.
There is no one to know."
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