Black goat, temple of skin -the sacrfice begins,
flesh press, lead them to their torturing deaths,
mental home for the funeral orchestra,
god of life, god of gloom we pray to you - damned to our doom.

Unholy abused, deities of darkness enter the light,
void of silence and disembowelled, gaged on sadism;
sarcasm smiles at a thousand dead,
the sun falls behind the graves, grim silhouette stand proud;
graves and crosses cast shadows on this face.

Thirst for blood and hunger for death,
sick pope, take no mercy in your ministry,
undead crusade move swiftly - what little time,
kill thier god, torture their men, fuck their women
and slave their children.

Doom sayer speak loudly!
give us morbid, we want tragedy!
amendment day anoint your demond,
I dub thee pain, I dub thee hate, I dub thee sadness, I dub thee tragedy;
sssshhhh speak not thine name, you only emulate.


© Copyright Addict - Phillip Clayton (2006-2007)

"a life of gore and deterioration. the words in this poem are not all mine i took them from some of my faved grindcore lyrics and combined them to form something else."

So much flesh, so little time...
the human condition,
a primal existence,
deteriorated bile.

The process of life...
procreate,
food intake,
the elimination of waste.

Anatomy...
micturate, defecate,
felch, gurgle,
reduced to paste.
smelting human pieces,
pounded!

Scatology domain...
breathing humanure,
anthropophabic life,
chummified as one,
applied human defragmentation,
death's paradise,
lips kissing assholes,
men bow before Swines.

© Copyright Addict - Phillip Clayton (2006-2007)

Visit my writers profile: [link]

an awesome book...its called the Art Spirit- by Robert Henri....He was a painter back in the 1920's Passage from Art Spirit-

" Art when fully understood is the province of every human being. It is simply a question of doing things, anything, well. It is not an outside, extra thing.

When the artist is alive in any person, whatever his kind of work may be, he becomes an inventive, searching, daring, self-expressing creature. He becomes interesting to other people. He disturbs, upsets, enlightens, and he opens ways for a better understanding. Where those who are not artists are trying to close the book, he opens it, shows there are still more pages possible.

The world would stagnate without him, and the world would be beautiful with him; for he is interesting to himself and he is interesting to others. He does not have to be a painter or sculptor to be an artist. He can work in any medium. He simply has to find the gain in the work itself, not outside it."

DEVIL'S NITE

as the misty air clears away,
there shadows swayed.
the trees whispered there secrets,
alot happend here, non of which were good.

the house stood on that hill for years,
an undying legend.
the front seemd liek only pve rgrown weeds and trees,
but those hwo know of the horro fo that memorable nite....
knew that only shallow and unmarked graves rested in those weeds.

the tails liv eon to this very day,
the shouts that echoed on christmas,
was anything but a jolly ho ho ho,
the torture coudl be felt by the very wind that blew on that hill.

endless pain, only nightmares lived there.
swing bodies from the ceiling,
angry spirits took it for there dwelling.

an don the 25th of december,
they would come awake...
only to spread there terror,
they say the walls come alive,
and breathed only the stink of death,
the rooms screamed the spund of ripping flesh..

the halls were rivers of blood,
carrying the memories of the dead,
the crows would sit and watch waiting for the souls,
so they may carry them to the everlasting torture.

they say the devil signed the deed,
and hell built this home.
they say the evil si so muich there the air itself is thick an dhard to breathe,
as a plague fo demons flew aroudn the hosue at all times.

btu the christmas day was they day this evil got hungry,
to everyone it was there time to be happy,
a time for food and celebration,
to the devils that lived in that house, it was harvest day.

the sky would apear crimson,
but it was only the misty air staind with blood,
masacar's of the living,
the witches often spoke of this day,
for even they them selves feared this day.

the day that woudl become a legend of fear, and terror.
a time when life enters the dead.

the living are dying and the dead are breathing,
when sounds of pure evil shreeks across the land,
replacing the sound of happy carols,
a day when day shallno longer exist,
a day when the darkest fo nights shall become a 24 hour blood bath
the day that became known as devil's nite!

ZAO(Zenith Angle Offset )

subliminal, not tainted,
truth with out the straight arrow,
life at an offset angle,
hypnotic, captivating..
the pleasant sound of a distorted demond,
dont just hear understand,
suicide notes, and blood staind poems,
songs raging from the darkest underground,
the devil can n ot relate to what is said,
the twisted miind of brilliance.
not through christian television nation,
when gods eye turns on me all i see is black,
a child of ur flower power revolution,
im not quite the vision of ur moral solution,
ur fears we have over come,
remember the first war,
when angles faces were stiand with the blood of christ,
when a legion fell form heaven,
when the door breaks, they will find u suspended by wires.