Try along these sacks for proof of feral merriment, in stilled eyes and on carnal graves. All whose rotting limbs are well studied in 'ologies of human squander- Red with laughter, plucked with all caving souls and anger. Gasping, so, with lewd amusement of the dead in jest.
Muspelhiem froths forth with cold hearts, lusting of mortal slaughter. I've seen the men whose vial looks a barrel‒ whose foaming mouths, birthed-stillborn of Sheol and all it's unebbing horrors, can't restrain the joy of culling. Hate creation‒ worship crude insemination, ravished toward the making of wilful immolation.
But what casket of pleasant delirium, brings deaths to child's eyes‒ no wars of misfortune must be ****** of a playful kind. Hecatombs, artistic as day‒ homes like Tophet for children to play. But whose poison to **** me sooner, under Black Suns and darkened hearts, as Lucifer capers down the burrow.