05 February 2014


You will recall that We instructed you to absorb this Entity's work in one of Our early transmissions.

And lo! It has come to pass that this Messenger, called Saison De Rouille, has writ a new work.
 And We have said unto you, "Yea, it is Good. Partake thereof, for We command you thus!"

Every man must sacrifice, according to his means. For this, too, We command.
Go you to this temple:
Absorb this new work and rejoice!

Leave you now the temple and go amongst the people, even unto all the peoples of the world, and preach the word of this great Messenger!

The word of

12 August 2013

Fact of Life 651829

Psychos do not explode when the sun hits them.
I don't give a fuck how crazy they are.

- Seth Gecko

04 August 2013


   Where to begin with this album?
   The guitars. The fucking guitars!
   They sound ill. They're sick. And not like they be illin or that's fuckin sick, dude.
   No, not like that.
   These vile guitars need medication. And plenty of rest. Antibiotics and blood work and further tests. Specialists, maybe. Thick and heavy, but clear, this is certainly the cleanest production to date for the band, allowing the riffs to shine. Riffs that are ridden with decay and pestilence. Curious voicing and disturbingly off-kilter melodies... Fucking ugly, disgusting, rotten and just-plain-wrong-and-that's-why-they're-fucking-perfect! harmonies...

   There seems to be something off, and it ruins everything beautifully. Listen through this album too many times and you will start to sense the filth which rots at its foul core. Putrid hymns born of heroin and cigarettes. Cocaine and street fights. Expensive alcohol and cheap whores. All in the name of Satan. Hymns of worship and science. Ritual and research. Philosophy and manifestation. All in the name of Satan. And it feels very genuine. You believe that these guys are running amok out there! You believe that they believe, and therein lies the power.

   It's quite something to think about, really: through tangible means, Arkhon Infaustus has conveyed the intangible with a startling degree of depth and definition. Artistic vision inspired by a doctrine of debauchery and fanaticism, and rendered with infernal skill. Here is the junkie, lounging in the gutter and laughing through a haze of smack and broken teeth, dried blood on his chin and shirt and knuckles. Here is the deviant, lying naked and unconscious on the sticky floor of some poorly lighted room reeking of Absinthe and vomit, blood crusting around the edges of recently opened wounds and infected needle marks. Here are the galleries and studios and coffeehouses of Paris, all smashed windows and battered doors and trembling, bruised proprietors. Hear now the screams and curses and prayers of sadistic decadence and violent supplication, the profane utterances of an ultra-modern coven of witches and occult adepts. Hear now the madness and mysticism. Logic and Logos. Blood and bone and blasphemy. Hear the sound of Apocalypse as it approaches, growing ever closer and ever louder. The wails of the dying. The satisfied grunts of exertion emitted by murderers as they go about their work. This is the sound of Satan, conjured with religious devotion and frequency manipulation. The sound of the universe collapsing. Of dark matter. Putrefaction. There is destructive genius here, tempered with diabolical intuition.

   It may be that the four heretic shadows that recorded this twisted masterpiece were not so much creators as they were conduits. It may be that these are the voices of those who were ancient when this world was still young, speaking through the worthless, ravaged bodies of four delirious devotees, praising death and decrying hope: Gouge out your eyes, so that you might see! You will not be saved. Live with abandon, for all that lives, dies.  Love death as the weak ones love life. As the only true salvation. Eternity does not exist for such as you; seek it not! Crave destruction. Pray for devastation.

   Is this the wisdom of the Void, spoken through Arkhon Infaustus? Or the ravings of lunatic charlatans bent on defiling you according to their own iniquitous designs? Does it really matter at this late hour? I think not. The damage is done. Listen, and listen again. And again. And still more. Absorb this album. Listen until you understand. Until you are corrupted. Degraded. Until you are bloodied and scarred. Listen until you are no more than an empty vessel, fit for nothing, save to carry the message of Orthodox Sin!


14 July 2013

Hymn 025


agromaniac, necrologist style
droppin motherfuckers
got a Zodiac smile

bringin both barrels
fuckin layin to rest
one in the head and fuckin one in the chest


i got crosshair-cataracts for you fuckin maggots
die on your knees

you walking bloodbags
you fuckin chalk-outline motherfuckers



Hymn 009


I light a candle and pour a drink, awaiting the dawn
I try not to think of the shadows whispering
They beckon and taunt me
They want me to see, but my eyes are weak

I resolve to comprehend, and with psychedelic acumen I proceed
Aided by melancholy melodies

Rapt, my mind perceives the joints and seams of composite realities
There are other worlds, it seems, existing concurrently
Through candlelight and bloodshot eyes I contrive to see
This twilight legacy of inter-dimensional incorporeality

Presently, phantasmal reflections appear
All powder and faded amber, like nineteenth-century photographs
And flickering like the grainy images of silent cinema

Have I summoned ghosts?
Are they agents of oblivion or specters of dementia?

Creeping monotony breeds intoxicating mysteries...

Bleak, these midnight reveries
Bleaker still the remedy

So I light another candle and pour another drink
I'm waiting for the dawn
And I'm trying not to think

13 July 2013

Hymn 003


Wretched and mortal
This material plane is a genetic dungeon with cortical chains

Spirit entombed in thought
The mind is an evolving shroud of random design

Atomically charged
Chemically signed
And beginning to die with the first breath of life

I can feel this shell dying one breath at a time

Interred in utero
My spectral grave is a corporeal crypt with a carbon base

My epitaph written in strands of DNA

Mired in flesh and pain and shit
Blood and bile and fear and piss

My essence tainted by the tangible

This corruption deludes
I must resist the illusion
Abandon the schism

Hymn 001


Insomniac television glows without sound
Cigarettes and minutes
Burned beyond count
The sharper the blade the better, I've found
Scratching symbols on bullets with the tips filed down

A ghost in the shadows
Possession and dream
Milligram eyes and nicotine screams
Lunatic pattern
Muttering fiend
Examining splatter patterns for Keys

Eyes are black holes
Voice a grim rasp
Rust in my veins
Blood on my hands

Synaptic blaze
Adrenaline flash
Blood on the blade
And blood on my hands

03 July 2013


"The world only began to get something of value from me the moment I stopped being a serious member of society and became--myself. The State, the nation, the united nations of the world, were nothing but one great aggregation of individuals who repeated the mistakes of their forefathers. They were caught in the wheel from birth and they kept at it until death--and this treadmill they tried to dignify by calling it "life." If you asked anyone to explain or define life, what was the be-all and end-all, you got a blank look for an answer. Life was something which philosophers dealt with in books that no one read. Those in the thick of life, "the plugs in harness," had no time for such idle questions. "You've got to eat, haven't you?" This query, which was supposed to be a stopgap, and which had already been answered, if not in the absolute negative at least in a disturbingly relative negative by those who knew, was a clue to all the questions which followed in a veritable Euclidean suite. From the little reading I had done I had observed that the men who were most in life, who were molding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing. They had no illusions about duty, or the perpetuation of their kith and kin, or the preservation of the State. They were interested in truth and in truth alone. They recognized only one kind of activity--creation. Nobody could command their services because they had of their own pledged themselves to give all. They gave gratuitously, because that is the only way to give. This was the way of life which appealed to me: it made sense. It was life--not the simulacrum which those about me worshipped."

 --Henry Miller

30 June 2013

Required Listening




Blasphemi Obsignati Resignaculo Germaninferorum In Aeternum

Le Grand Oeuvre

Flesh Cathedral

None of the material presented here is easy listening mall metal bullshit, so put the work in!
Yes, you must Actively Listen. Yes, you must repeatedly Actively Listen. If you don't understand, or can't be bothered - you should roll. You stumbled into the wrong place, and you aren't going to like it here.
And Here isn't going to like you.

That's all for now, fuckers.

Required Listening

Caduta Dei Gravi

Light candle(s). Pour drink(s), etc. Listen. Repeat.

29 June 2013

So It Begins... Eventually

So here we are.
No doubt you're thinking: what the fuck?
So are We.

We will return when We see fit to do so.