Thursday, July 28, 2005
Violent Revolution
Society failed to tolerate me
And I have failed to tolerate society
Still I can’t find what you adore
Inside I hear the echoes of an inner war
Nothing can take the horror from me
Your sick world the loss of all morality
My hate has grown as strong as my confusion
My only hope my only solution
is a Violent Revolution
Violent Revolution, Violent Revolution
Reason for the people to destroy
I do not need a cause for my rage
I just despise the nature of the human race
When all I see is repulsion and hate
Violence becomes my only friend, my saving grace
When love is lost beyond your control
A pale shadow of lust can not enlight your soul
So keep your ice cold bitter illusions
I don’t need your empty world my only solution
is a Violent Revolution
Violent Revolution, Violent Revolution
Reason for the people to destroy
Beauty is no more it’s all gone
And utopia will not come
Trust I can not feel, only pain
And my burning mind has gone insane
-- Kreator
Desideras Diabolum 8:56 AM!
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Saturday, July 23, 2005
Putrefaction
A bone-chilling scream pierces the air, and another disfigured fingernail clatters lightly on the ground, throwing flecks of blood as it rolls slowly away.
Slowly, the torturer picks up his grimy cloth, and shakes her head as she languidly cleans the pliers , her face a impervious mask of calm disdain. Walking over to his prisoner, she lifts his bowed head up, and painstakingly wipes away the streams of tears and dirt. Against the resulting cavalcade of vituperation, the torturer again begins his mellifluous, dulcet song.
"Dear, dear, was that really necessary? Oh but don't worry - fingernails aren't important, and your fingers will be better in no time. Here, let me dress them for you, and we'll be feeling better in no time!"
Smiling sweetly, her radiant face glistening under the dim light of the lone bulb in the room, she opens a bottle of brandy and cleans her hands. Then, with a beautiful, supplicating smile, she cleans his fingers with it and begins rubbing salt into her prisoner's raw fingers.
Noting the ineluctable change in his countenance, she whispers gently into his ear, "I'm sorry dear, I know it smarts, but i've run out of iodine... Just bear with me for a while ok?" Taking some gauze, she bandages his fingers with great alacrity, with the skills of her profession as a doctor.
She pauses before placing the last piece of tape on the gauze, as if recalling the times when she used to say the same soothing words to her patients, while applying the same punctilious attention to their wounds. Yes, that was the time when she was robed in the white immunity of medicine, draped with the noble garments of healing and rejuvenation. In that time, she was one of the most noble surgeons, performing grandiose ledgerdermains, bringing people to life where death was nearly almost certain.
And she remembered, through all the glory and the recognition, she had kept a level head, cordially acknowledging but never acceding, politely declining but never bluntly denouncing, the garrulous flatterers, the lyrical sycophants, all those who sought to bring themselves up by less than their own merit, less than the work of their own two hands. She had never understood them - then as well as now. Why all the eloquent two-faced panegyrics, all the basely false compliments, all the "socially appropriate" behaviour? Was it not enough to be polite, and leave it as such?
Clink. The sound of a needle falling from her medical kit brings her back to the present.
"Well, dear sir, are you willing to talk now? Words are cheap, you know... Why waste your life, your future over such small things as a few names? You would think they would have tried to save you by now if they valued you so much..."
Yes, indeed. The temporal valuation she had received. The cordiality that subtly seeped along the sewers of power. It had changed, it had gone, like the ephemera of the summer blooms. Dignity? There was no dignity in her fall, that little pestiference of her own honesty had smothered and choked that a long time ago.
Yes, a small mistake, "the kingdom was lost, and all for the want of a nail!". It haunted her to this day. No, not the slight twitch she made that caused her to sever an artery, not even the potent cocktail that had caused that careless moment. But her belief.
Her belief in the honor of mankind.
So she accepted the blame nobly, against the gravitas of her closest friends' advice. She assuaged their fears then, believing that her past glories would buoy her up, would keep her going after she had left her kingdom. But they only shook their heads, dismissing her as temerariously rushing down the rictus of obscurity.
And they were right.
So when her malfeasance was revealed, the standard practice was applied - being struck off the list. But her ignominy did not have the repercussions she believed it would have - rather, all they did was shrug their shoulders and continue on, as if nothing had happened. It was as if nothing had changed.
But they had. No more well-wishers, no more respect, no more opportunities. All doors were closed, barred by the stronghold of laughter, the laughter of cynics at her immutable fall. And everywhere she turned, it was as if long years of friendship, of partnership, of powerful allies and mutual help, did now amount to absolutely nothing.
And just like that, she faded into the curtain of the night, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Now here, she saw in every victim, just another part of the world that had backstabbed her, that had vomited her out into the grimy quagmire, to go scratch another new emblem to replace the legions of those that had faded. And in each fell stroke, she poured her vehemence, her fury, her unbridled retaliation, all the while smiling and coaxing, reflecting the smiles that she herself had so abhorred while floating on her cloud nine.
A neverending cycle of vengeance, never satisfied, never satiated.
"Still not talking? Well i'm not sure if you took biochemistry, but i'm sure you know that 400 degrees celsius on bare skin isn't exactly the most healthy thing, isn't it?"
As the red hot metal glowed and sizzled on the prisoner's skin, the piercing ululation began again.
And the putrefaction of her soul continued, down that broad and wide path to hell.
Desideras Diabolum 6:38 PM!
***
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Absolution
The night was still; the somnolent giant still not yet awakened from her temporal slumber.
Yet, as the cumulonimbus clouds hung ominously, obscuring the gleam of the fading moon, new life stirs beneath the gray liveried sky. A tremulous note, rising from the subtle waves of the air, accelerating in this fiery crescendo, shivered the foundations of the stifling fog.
And through the thick gossamer drapes, this mute and blind curtain, silouhettes slowly fade into view, torches burning with defiant vigour, chasing away the vermin of the streets, sending long shadows scampering across the cobbled road, like roaches before a coming onslaught.
They smell of smoke - of the smoke of commingled furies and the stench of smouldering carcasses.
And now, even as the torches slash great swathes of grey spirits before them, the clip-clop of distant hooves can be heard, and the soft thuds of rubber shoes on hard stone. In the distant vestiges of fog, the silent drumbeats of the approaching cavalcade begin to resound.
The Symphony of Destruction - so it begins.
Their eyes conceal a seething hatred, of inner turmoil, of grand misfortune, each unique, yet common in purpose, common in seeking a scapegoat, one to blame for all the misfortunes heaped out on their small, insignificant existences. So this faceless crowd begins to approach the place of reckoning.
The nameless hill. Where the most heinous criminals are punished for their crimes, and their carcasses left for the ravens and crows to devour. Once a halcyon, serene retreat of the simple naive townfolk, now littered with the off-white ornaments of perdurable bloodshed. Bones, skulls; yellowed not by the ravages of time, but by the laughter of judges; broken not by the chisels of nature, but by the gavel of the courts, are arrayed on this sepulcher monument like seashells on the shore. Washed by the waters of the red sea, little brown pellets, rusted yet deadly, hold testament to the daily sight of puffing, acrid clouds wafting down the gentle hillocks.
Now the eastern sky begins to ripple, reddening with the shimmering furore of the coming storm...
As the light begins to suffuse the bound figures on the hill, the crowd begins to murmur with the throngs of excitement.
"Make Way! Make Way!"
The murmur rises to a deep ululation, as the crunch of miltary boots begins to sound through the gathered. Soldiers, marching in single file, laden with the arnaments of execution, yet ever ramrod-straight. And at their front, their glorious lieutenant, sword emanating its own silver gleam, barks out his commands with fervent vigour.
So the sword stroke falls. With a single word, the roar of the fusillade begins, and the blindfolded figures, cowards as they are, scream their last defiant cries as the thundering rush of lead engulfs them in its final embrace.
As they crumple to the ground, a single woman is led up the hill. The ringleader, the scapegoat.
They read out the list of her crimes, the solemn, reverbating words bringing with them their violent ignominy. But there is something different this time.
No defiance, no haughty gaze, no derisive laughter comes from the woman's countenance.
Instead, as the list is rattled off, glistening teardrops, like sylvan crystals, drop slowly to the ground, as if slowed, arrested, by the grasp of guilt behind them.
And as she stares down the single barrel of the lieutenant's rifle, she sees the confessional, the entrance to that final curtain. As the puff comes, time seems to slow down, as the small window opens the pathway.
She feels the bullet in her chest. And a whisper comes to her through the roar of execution.
"Yes, my child, what is it?"
The crowd cheers, caught up in the jubilation of hatred. But she no longer hears them.
And as the rays of the sun finally break through the heavens, she whispers her last words.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."
Desideras Diabolum 11:08 PM!
***
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Te Deum
And once again, Big Ben chimes out the reverbations of victory. As midnight sets on Britain once again, a resounding ululation creeps across the capital, a gleam of future majesty, of untold glory hidden in the hopes and dreams of great men, of a small divine cessation in the face of colonial capitulation.
And we wonder, whether the return of glory will be a permanent stony adornment, a sculpted effigy of a slow but steady return to prominence, and we wonder if all those billions will be as alabaster poured into a shining grail, or a feeble pane of glass against the raging tornado that is as yet sweeping across the silent skies of powdered gold.
Will we witness the rebirth of that which once was the capital of an immeasurable global empire? The ever-impregnable fortress that withstood the screaming infernoes of the blitz, and came back yet stronger and more resilient?
Or will it become like Athens, over-zealous in it's brash temerity, taking the royal coffers to the brink of bankruptcy, to finally become a shanty, vast stadiums now ghettoes of peradventure folly?
As the coffers of London pour out their golden sands into the foundations of the new stadium, seven years will bide their time...
But for now, victory.
Te Deum, Te Deum.
Desideras Diabolum 8:05 PM!
***
Monday, July 04, 2005
Metal
"When your time on earth is close at hand,
Maybe then you'll begin to understand,
Life down here is just a... strange illusion..."
-- Iron Maiden, Hallowed be Thy Name
So here begins a panegyric to the euphonious harmonies that stem from an agglomeration of fear, anxiety, anger, morbidity, and other negative sentiments.
But let me tell you a story of a man, who found his calling in this maelstrom.
So it began that this man, soothed by the saccharine melodies of the world, emboldened by the recent triumphs over the guiding hands he believed sought to bring his future to a miry end, set off on a new path of discovery in a new paradigm, where the essence of years was sharpened, accentuated by the aborning maturity, the sudden physicality, of this society, such that a few years, nay, a few months, might effect a change so drastic, so unexpected, such as to abscond the present person from his past.
So as our unfledged man began his new tribulation, if you may, in this tempestuous society, he found his place, or so he believed. A place at the top of one of the strata, peradventure one of the more important ones, one of those considered to be socially desirable, and necessary for the aggrandizement of one's own legacy. With his other traits, he began to build his dream, his own dulcet melody. Yet his dream, if ever so recherche, was crumbling even as it began.
So as it seems, that arrogance, misguided complacency, is the curse of all the elitists. Yes, elitist that he was, he believed himself superior merely because of his comparative success in a single, albeit important, aspect. Thus it became that his personality took a turn for the worse. And yet, in his elation, his perpetual self-appraisement, he fancied still that all was still, all was calm, not sensing the sibilant rage of his peers, lurking beneath the glassy facade...
It seemed then, that as the second year approached the third, the vile vutuperation began to surface, under the cover of anonymity, in places here and there, in small ways, in little acts, to make it known, subtly, that grandiose boasts and perpetual self praise was little, if at all, appreciated. Yet this man, in his blindness and brash temerity, chose to brave it all, forswearing his chances by continuing in his delusions of grandeur.
So it finally came to a time, the median, the middle, where he found himself thoroughly deserted. All lines reached this instant, all relations terminated, all ties severed. So our man was then throughly adrift. At that time, a certain person had already influenced his music back at the turn of the second year; and now he turned himself more towards it.
It was his comfort, his refuge. As faceless musicians roared, screamed, and rasped their vexations, their nihilist sentiments, their vile frothing anger, he found his own reflection in them, and screamed, and poured his angst into the cacophony, losing his fury within the general altercation. As the melodies switched to eerie chants, lamenting loss and anxiety, he found his voice, of terror at abandonment, at countless soliloquys at decisions for the future. And in the general noise, the screech of metal on wood, of raw emotive passion, he felt himself to be in another world, of countless sympathies for his plight, not of soothing comforting voices that assured him of the amelioration of his condition, but of seething furies that stoked the glowing embers of his perpetual torment.
But his conditions did get better, his life improved. Things began to fall into place, a cycle of beauteous sentiments and occasional depressions. Even then, he still fancied the occasional descent into small fits of madness, of little pseudo-dialogues with the fires of music, of the raw energy and emotion that characterized the scarred rapidity of his emotional journey.
And like the duality of Gollum and Smeagol, I see that man in my reflection in the calm deep.
"There are times when the road gets dark,
Seem to have, lost my way...
Sophisticated abuse of reason,
Day after day..."
--Probot, My Tortured Soul
[Edit] I re-did my template. If I may say so proudly, by myself. Blogging sure is one heck of a good crash course in applied HTML. [Edit]
Desideras Diabolum 9:07 AM!
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