#ritualistic
moonlight shining,
hello darling
everytime that vast worn out
staircase descends,
lightning slashing through
space and time,
leaving our mighty heavens starstruck
thunder reverberating through realms roaring with man’s sin,
shattering the undead’s train of thought
in this inhospitable land of constant chaos
with our mere inhospitable hollow souls
roaming it seeking naught,
or perhaps destruction
if you step unto that baroque castle
soaked in oil of angels,
finding yourself in its filthy stomach
or perhaps its quite pristine
until the filth that is yourself became,
glance at thy skeletal visage as shown
in her adorned reflective portal
memorize its metallic flavor, bathe in its
melancholic blood mirages
disperse ones ripples of past reverie
allow thy inorganic heart to sink fangs into those crimson crystalline veins
annihilate laws, deconstruct equilibrium
preach propagation, breed memories
mayhap then
the mourning actors will understand
all’s moving towards the past
conclude our haunting beauty
take the barn owl headed man’s hands
as one is escorted to that
pearl draped bed
across the bridge of moths
meet me there
at the edge of the universe
where all creations
organic and inorganic matter alike
converge at finality’s
battle of the larynx.
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 10:52 AM UTC
Let's talk honestly shall we?
It's easier to have a face to face with the devil
To communicate with the dead and summon evil
Draw a circle, scratch a pentagram in the middle
With a flame dancing on the peak of a candle
Flickering at the outmost tips of the symbol
Sandle wood incent lit, hit a gong or crash symbol
Then a little rhythmic hum to conclude the opening ritual
Pretty simple
The theatrical aspect varies culture to culture
But the critical structure, the essence, the flavor
The nature of "just call and I'll be there" is there
Let's be honest here, you don't get that with prayer
You'd have better luck with a comatose soothsayer
A blind palm reader, or and end of days sandwich board holder
The one on the corner screaming about unspeakable horror
Just think about it
What do you got to do to talk to your lord and savior?
Is his policy open door?
Does he have your back while going through your personal war?
You're trying to survive the unjust life he made and you're in store for
He just stands back and tallies the score
"IF YOU WEREN'T GOING TO HELP THEN WHAT WERE THE EXTRA SET OF FOOTPRINTS IN THE SAND FOR?!?"
This is straight from his written lore, though purposely vague on what's real and what's a metaphor
What are the odds you're right?
He designed you to never be able to directly interact,
Explain that
It's a wildly overlooked fact
Infact,
It's what knocks his believability off track
You look at him and you go blind as a bat,
Why would he do that?
His voice will cause your ears to bleed if your head doesn't explode on first contact
He didn't have to design it like that!
The only answered prayers are those of musicians, athletes and the beautiful people who can act
The rest of us? Good luck Jack
If he hears your prayers then most of the times he's just like, "naw, fuuck that."
What's up with that?
Pretty convenient
©2024
Feb 3, 2024
Feb 3, 2024 at 7:14 PM UTC
There’s a daily ritual
of pain habitual
a desperate visual
when I fall in love
and you don’t return it
so I find a drug
and decide to burn it
as I try out discernment.
You only became hotter
after my ritualistic slaughter.
You cut me open and read my innards
informing you that you were the winner
as you ate them for dinner.
After your painful x-ray
I skipped the next phase
of averting my gaze
so I’m diverting to craze
through my ritual of shame
where I feel despondent
from the response sent
in our correspondence.
All my peers
act like seers
showing me their crystal ball
where I stand tall.
But the Ouija board
had me seething toward
a demon *****
who seemed like more
to eat my core.
The other animals in this zoo
are trying to be you
but I can see through
when they say “me too”.
They can’t impede blues
the way you easily diffuse
so I just drain the goats’ blood
at the shrine of no love
where I cry and eye rub
as they die in the dust.
I kneel before the altar of sorrow
that is my lonely bed
I lose all vision of tomorrow,
it’s replaced by red
and images of the dead
who never really lived
all they did was bled,
that’s all this ritual gives
a million shivs
poking torturously into my sides
I try to use one to cut off a piece of the pie
but end up gouging out my eyes
repeating a ritualistic chant of why.
Candles and pentagrams
are where the deadened land
fed up with the rules of man
I bring Satan my demands,
him and regret hand in hand
offering advice to the damaged ******
I gave a blood sacrifice
to the needle
I stopped acting nice
to be evil
to deal with people
and their oppressive steeples.
I became cold
danced around an Asherah pole
then begged for mercy for my soul,
the one my rationalizations couldn’t hold
after breaking the hypnotic mold
of having my humanity sold.
These rituals I’ve performed
have summoned a storm
and left me forlorn.
My harvest of corn
came in barren
so now I watch ****
or go to a harem.
Feb 6, 2020
Feb 6, 2020 at 2:40 PM UTC
My goal could be
a post office,
and maybe hangovers.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC