Friday, October 31, 2008

Samhain Revisions

Black Sabbath only fillys this original (real horrorshow) version of their 1970's hit warble on very special occasions, o my brothers.



Witches gather at black masses
Bodies burning in red ashes
On the hill the church in ruin
Is the scene of evil doings
It's a place for all bad sinners
Watch them eating dead rats' innards
I guess it's the same wherever you may go

Carry banners which denounce the lord
See me rocking in my grave
See them anoint my head with dead rat's blood
See them stick the stake through me

Don't hold me back cause I've just gotta go
They've got a hold of my soul now
Lords got my brain instinct with blood obscene
Look in my eyes I'm there enough

On the scene a priest appears
Sinners falling at his knees
Satan sends out funeral pyre
Casts the priest into the fire
It's the place for all bad sinners
Watch them eating dead rats' innards
I guess it's the same wherever you may go

P.S. "Brain instinct with blood obscene."
Happy Halloween!

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

At the Late-nite Café

It was an ungodly hour. In place of the constant buzzing and honking of city traffic, you could now only hear the occasional roar of a revving engine that almost always evolved into that jarring screech of hyper-spun tires on pavement. The diverse clientele at the late-nite coffee bar would hurl unheard insults at these phantom drivers suffering from what most likely was a case of intoxicated bravado behind the wheel.

“Woo-whee hon!” shouted a heavily pierced woman leaning against the cafe’s red brick wall. She was nursing a dark glass of iced coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “You’re such a big man now!” A couple that looked like they had recently escaped from a nightclub, well dressed but covered in drying perspiration, seemed to appreciate the remark. She turned back to her friends, expertly exhaling a burst of smoke, firstly from her noses and then from her mouth. It lingered around her lips for a bit before dissolving into the night sky. “But anyways,” she said, trying to transition back into the conversation, “you have to admit, we are going to leave a pretty fucked up mark on the world—y’know?”

At least one of her friends clearly didn’t follow. He took a sip of his brightly colored energy drink and narrowed his eyes at hers. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, look.” She started. “Just, like, for example, consider your drink. I’m not trying to sound like one of those organic-hippie-nazi-types, but do you know what gives that stuff its coloring?”

“Uhh, that food-dye stuff, I’ll wager. My mom always had ‘em in the kitchen. Comes in those little plastic bottles? One drop’ll turn, like, a gallon of water into that color.”

“Yeah, kinda.” She agreed. “But a lot of the stuff used to color food stuff is called Carminic Acid, which is harvested off of the bodies of dead South American Bugs.”

“Well that’s pretty sexy.” It was all he could say. He killed off the last bit of his drink and threw it into the nearby recycling bin.

She was clearly enjoying herself. She tugged at the ring around her lip, unconsciously smirking. “So basically, a metric shit-ton of those critters were harvested in order to give that beverage of yours the illusion that it’s flavored with berries. Or at least berry-esque.” She paused. “Makes you wonder how much else is in life is illusionary, y’know?”

“Hold that thought,” he said with a half smile. “I have to go piss out some bug juice.” He stepped inside the café. Punk music was pumping from some unseen old-school stereo. You could tell it was old because the all the high-frequency notes were accompanied with those curious popping noises.



He went into the unisex bathroom. The mirror was beyond cracked and there were no paper towels, but it was reasonably clean. After checking his flow of piss to make sure it wasn’t a radioactive berry color, his eyes gazed towards the lightly tan colored wall. Customers certainly weren’t afraid to leave their marks at this late nite café, and petty vandalism even seemed to be encouraged. Sharpie sprawlings and knife etches covered all four sides of the wall. It served as a sort of timeline of sardonic bathroom humor that highlighted the various historical events that took place during the joint’s existence. Within reaching distance from the toilet, he saw the Reagan-era commentary. A happy, red-eyed smiley face argued that it just couldn’t say “no.” A bit to the right, somebody carved out “I hope the fetus that you save is GAY!” Further still, a then-topical Bill Clinton fellatio joke.

Semi-serious statements or feigned displays of offense were ruthlessly mocked. Underneath a long winded diatribe entailing the virtues of anarchy, a prankster simply wrote “I can rip apart the system AND take a shit? Now that’s convenient!” Blasphemy followed blasphemy. There was a drawing of two towers, and a crudely drawn stick figure atop of it. It was saying “Look! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! OH SHIT! It IS a plane!” An offended outsider wrote “You sick bastard.” The response was another joke, of questionable taste. “Hey, sorry about that. Here’s a joke to cheer you up: knock knock? Who’s there? 911. 911 who? YOU SAID YOU’D NEVER FORGET.”

As he rejoined his friend, he commented that if the ingredients label was written by bathroom wall vandals, they’d at least have the decency to write “CRUSHED BUG SHIT” in place of Carmic-acid-or-whatever.

She laughed. “If bathroom vandals ran society, what mark do you think they’d leave?” He just shrugged and listened to another car peel out in the distance.

Monday, October 27, 2008

“Yeah, I’ve heard of these guys. You said they were called Antaeus, right? Some fuckin…some fuckin’ French shit, right?”

It’s common for your brain to conjure up vivid mental conceptions or images at a rate that is much faster than what you can express with the spoken word. For most people, this linguistic lapse is represented with those dreaded “umms” or “uhhhs” that make every high school speech teacher shudder. I never heard this fellow ever commit that sort of communication faux pas. For him, the “umms” and “uhhs” were always simply replaced with the word “fuckin.”

“Yeah man. Real intense—y’know? Really, like, fuckin… real fuckin’ feral.”

We were sitting in the café in our university’s student center. Students and faculty alike percolated in and out of the window lit room. Some were clearly grabbing a hurried bite between classes, while others sat laughing in crowded tables with their text books open as if they came here to study. I’d bet anything that one of the hipper professors was leading a small discussion group on one of the large round tables in the center. The music was struggling to come out of his small laptop computer’s speakers, but nonetheless cut through the background noise just lucid enough to get its point across. I sipped tepid coffee, nodding in agreement.

“The melody is dissonant… but its… right… fuckin…there.” I replied. His profanity was rubbing off on me. “I wouldn’t call them a minimalist black metal band like Darkthrone, say. But the music hits you in kinda the same way… like a fuckin’ battering ram ripping a hole into the void.”

Anteaus. Son of Persidon, slain by Herculeus. According to Dante guards he guards one of the circles of Hell. Also: some French shit. Real fuckin' feral.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Belief in Tragedies

As the seasons change and leaves cascade to the ground blanketing the Earth with a layer of deathly auburn... a young man's fancy turns to IMMORTAL.

Ahh, one of the greats--yes?

Sunday, October 12, 2008

There was once a man with an anthropomorphic, talking ass

He thought it was real doggone cute (and for awhile, it was). He even taught it a couple of bar tricks, nothing special mind you... but it certainly was a cute distraction! Eventually, it would eat its way through its pants and start crying about being mistreated. When the man tried to shut it up, the ass replied "It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we don't need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit!"

Be very wary of cancerous assholes.

"The end result of complete cellular representation is cancer. Democracy is cancerous, and bureaus are its cancer. A bureau takes root anywhere in the state, turns malignant like the Narcotic Bureau, and grows and grows, always reproducing more of its own kind, until it chokes the host if not controlled or excised. Bureaus cannot live without a host, being true parasitic organisms. (A cooperative on the other hand can live without the state. That is the road to follow. The building up of independent units to meet needs of the people who participate in the functioning of the unit. A bureau operates on opposite principle of inventing needs to justify its existence.) Bureaucracy is wrong as a cancer, a turning away from the human evolutionary direction of infinite potentials and differentiation and independent spontaneous action, to the complete parasitism of a virus."
-Williams S. Burroughs II

Thursday, October 2, 2008

kulturkampf 2.0

Recently a Norwegian television station did a short documentary about the trials and tribulations of an idealistic folk band hailing from the American heartland.

Part 1:

Part 2:
(Featuring a post-ironic karaoke rendition of a Manowar song on the highway of Tehran. Infinite LOLS @ universals)

Part 3:


Arthimoth @ My Space. The Nile worship is pretty pervasive.