1. INTERIOR CRACK PSYCHO ANGEL BITCH

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2. REJECTION AND RAISING PERDITION BLAZE

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3. SEND ME TO HELL/DAY OF WINE AND THORNS

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4. GATES TO THE OUTSIDE

Once when mMastery returned to reside
In Prince Death's darkly curtained halls
Canst thou remember the glorious night
Didst thou not answer Him as He calleth ?
Dancing in line, all His acolytes and priests
The One above all dread Grand Archgod of Prey
Hath been conjured to rise in the midnight speeches

So together we "walked"

Walked that nethermost path one that leadeth to the outside
Behynde where monuments of vanished days layeth waste
Through the gateway of shadows, where resistance is in vain
To take Him home,

Ruler fixes His stare so blind,
Painfull to the eye and minde
Conquering the worlds in flight
Plague and madness to Mankind:

The gate to the Outside was open too long
The gate to the Outside was open too long
The gate to the Outside was open too long
The gate to the Outside was open too long


5. MY WAY

And now, the end is near,
And so I face the final curtain.
My friends, I'll say it clear;
I'll state my case of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full -
I've travelled each and every highway.
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets ? I've had a few,
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course -
Each careful step along the byway,
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew,
When I bit off more than I could chew,
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall
And did it my way.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried,
I've had my fill - my share of losing.
But now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that,
And may I say, not in a shy way -
Oh no. Oh no, not me.
I did it my way.

For what is a man ? What has he got ?
If not himself - Then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows
And did it my way.

Yes, it was my way.


6. TEARS OF A MELANCHOLIC VAMPIRE

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7. MASS GRAVE AESTHETICS

"What matter the victims, provided the gesture is beautiful ?
What matters the death of vague human beings,
If thereby the individual affirms himself ?"
[Laurent Tailhade]

The black Idol emerges as a silver lining in a dust cloud of death,
Eerie parallel tongues and the piping of heaven
The culture of transgression is mine and my descent
Makes me ascend in a repugnant swirl :

Sic volo,
Sic jubeo,
Stat pro ratione voluntas

The black Idol fills the veil of flesh with noxious smoke,
Depicting primal human experiences indifferently,
Contemptuous of moral concerns, dehumanized
The howling of wolves and the destructive sword are portions of Eternity,
Too great for the eyes of merely a man :

Transcendence of thresholds occurs with violence
And will for Vice is like the mind's dark radiance
Which blinds and of which I'm dying
Corruption is the spiritual cancer reigning in the depths of things
And it fills until the last cell of my vivid being
Dissolution and putrefaction, prevailing Aesthetic experience,
The splendor of the obscene and inhuman;
For what matters the death of a vague human beings
If thereby the individual affirms himself ?

Violence exists I the moment when the eye turns upwards into the head,
When inversion is complete and total
The darkness of the upturned eye is not the absence of light
But the process of seeing being taken to its limit
That thorough derangement of the senses,
Way beyond the deceptive conflict between darkness and light
Opens perceptions to the tyranny of the Chekhinah :

Si non credideritis,
Non inteligetis

The dimension of ethereal totalitarianism discloses itself
And takes possession of the quintessential human soul
Like a nail hammered through most tender flesh
Aeons separate the one whose eyes have seen through the night of the spirit
The king, the Lord of hosts, draped in terrifying magnificence
From the gleaming clot of trembling vermin
If a faith and a belief aren't nurtured by the moist of blood
They do not grow, nor do they live
It is at the magnitude of daily murders, massacres and mass graves
That we do measure the propagation of our faith
Hearken and recognize, that hideous carrion
Legs in the air, like a whore - displayed, indifferent to the last
A belly slick with lethal sweat and swollen with foul gas :

This is you, nourishing
The grand Mass Grave Aesthetics !