GOD IS DEAD, FATED TO BE AN EXILE, CONSIGNED TO THE FLAMES SINCE 2005.

He watches the long days,
go down to short nights.
Silently with little intrusions,
and gentle interventions.

Standing there frozen in place,
or hanged, but not to his death,
in the appearance of foolish and young days,
or the wizened and ancient years.

Reminding us about the things we do,
and that things and people will not last forever.

His speech is in the minimalistic music of chimes, beeps
and quiet ticks,
his language we see the arcane symbols of science.

He is there, seen or not seen at all,
slicing lives away without knowing.

We are all tied to him,
his willing and many unwilling slaves.

Not knowing we are bound to him til the end.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.1 Australia License.

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We are the chained lunatics,
who take pleasure in voicing our discontent,
while we are waiting to be released.

We are the heartless bunch of bastards and bitches,
who think that inflicting pain is fun,
and the consumption of innocent children and their pets is okay.

We are the black clad and twisted dark popes of Hell,
with mutilations and piercings,
being the next “it thing”.

We think that mutilation should count as a new art movement,
with skin as canvas, blood as paint,
flesh and entrails being a part of our gruesome masterpieces,
ready to be displayed in the pits of Hell or the next asylum.

Our music will consist of screams,
cries and sobs for symphonies,
and orchestras of suffering as we warp the worst of all your nightmares:
Cold reality.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.1 Australia License.

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