A cavalcade of dead flesh and weak men will prosper so long as we accept the arid hells they build and suffice our young the same. Throats yawn and gleam red for God's love; a contradiction endorsed for the unblessed. Faith led amiss breeds sickened flocks of backward sheep hunting balanced wolves. Skies shade their way to black as pulp reigns and settings lack the purposed mind to dismiss its yellowed lies. They are the night - hate-ridden, color them black. Absolution commodifies, bringing riches to narcissists and autocrats who know nothing of the songs they sing; this is a cancer - a cheap gag for fearful men. Such excesses of ignorance form only agents of blight and doom - vicious details which should never content. Doomsayers, I say to you: May the piss of man warm your heart as it brings the blue to black and puts life to rest. May you learn to weep for man and not God, follower.

Reams and reams of shit, that's all that clutters the shelf. The glue you've scraped from the tired hooves of hungry legs binds nothing but lies - lies fashioned as fact. The stupid herd, they pull the rope while screaming that the noose gets tighter. Choking themselves, they scramble for plastic cures to synthetic ills. While the world's left battered and slashed from ear to ear, we stand aphasiac and pregnant with fear. The empty claim victory by using the full, and the worthless gain worth by standing on the rest; I cannot close my eyes. Peeled back by the butchers of hell, they now welcome no concession. I'll scratch your names out of the future - a future where men are reasoned by reason and not by profit or prophets. Impair the perpetual greed machine. The errors must be corrected, and so they shall. No compromise. Even in the face of Armageddon, no compromise. Dissent and be whole. No compromise.

I disarrange their limbs and build a being more fitting to loathe - more fitting to fold. They question not the grave I dig, but the shovel with which it is dug. I guide their foul claws so they know which way to sway. I guise their petty flaws so the worms can't see the grey. I build them limb from limb so the whores know where to play. I combed the ape and dressed it up to be the blame. The putrid teeth part and sing a song of reprieve, "Oh holy father, please, please set us free." Fuck the folklore - the butcher is me. I bed the grave on which all will lie. As the skin begins to peel, the frame beneath reveals a mass of twisted bone and soured skin. The flesh rips as the issue progresses. The bones snap and the guise begins to fray. The pretty teeth part and sing a song of reprieve, "Oh holy father, please, please set me free." Fuck the folklore - the butcher was me. I bed the grave on which I will lie. The limbs sway countless, with mine among them. They sway a swing similar to the unhurried needles at the end of the brave; let the guilty hang.