Hymn 025

AGROMANIAC 

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

dead
motherfucker
dead

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

you walking bloodbags
you fuckin chalk-outline motherfuckers

dead
motherfucker
dead

 

Hymn 009

MIDNIGHT REVERIES

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

Hymn 003

INERTIA

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
Transcend...

Hymn 001

MILLIGRAM EYES

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

WORK

"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