Black Magick and Condemnations

Fury

I know your dirty little secret,
If it can even be called that,
Since you’re a piss-poor liar—
Or you just didn’t try to hide it.
And I don’t know what’s more insulting:
The act itself;
Or the implication of my stupidity,
As though I would sit with a sewn mouth
And open legs,
Acting as a husk for you to fuck
Whenever your extracurriculars grow stale,
And being the archetype of your normalcy,
The trophy of your Christian life.
But I’m not your American Dream,
Your something old
In between your somethings new,
Your somethings borrowed,
And I sure as hell won’t let you
Beat my soul into your something blue.
You’ve already taken more than you deserve,
So I won’t even give you what you’re owed;
Instead, I’ll just immortalize you
In words you can’t erase,
In sentiments you can’t vanquish,
And enchantments you can’t dispel;
My justice will be exacted
In black magick and condemnation,
And you will realize all too late
That you are accursed, exiled as you are
From the presence of God.

The Bride Even the Devil Divorced

black_eyes_by_kkcav-d3m9gcj

There is nothing sexy about your rage—
The infernal vengeance
You would reap upon those who have wronged you,
Borne you into this world,
Or stood in your presence
Instead of kneeling before your majesty;
So excuse me if I recuse myself
From your infallible presence
Or shiver when your skin meets mine.
I do not require your pardon
And do not crave your presence,
Radiating arrogance with each step,
Every flinch, every syllable spoken,
Causing me to retch my heart out
Whenever I have to inhale your noxious aura.
Your touch is like a snake bite,
The venom entering my bloodstream like a virus
And working its way to my heart;
Even worse when you try to fuck me—
The moments where I’d sooner die,
Except I would die in your arms,
And that is a fate worse than hell.

Hyddeous

grain shadow

I crave destruction;
It’s not some romanticized fiction
Or noble venture brimming with sentiment.
Because of everything that’s conspired against me—
Governments, family, a chastised world—
I pine for the end.
Within this sanctuary I have etched
There exists no morality,
Only a rage beget by injustice;
And on this altar of ire
I sacrifice in no one’s name,
Because sacrifice—
The artistic method of suffering—
Needs no purpose beyond its own existence.
With that hideous strength I wield,
Surprising even to myself,
I cast dominion over the puerile
And advance my personal army
Until grass turns to dirt under boot.
Even should there be no nation left to conquer
I will wage war still,
Whether upon myself or the gods above,
To prove my own liberation
From all but bloodlust,
A carnal craving for penance,
An unyielding covet for destruction.