Helter.Chaos.Skelter

Terrible is what human does, pain teaches that as terrible is what the tree cries.
A child doesn’t know what’s bad, he doesn’t know what’s good.
Come join the reflection of mankind upon themselves. The chaotic order of blood.
Wrath on raging minds which pick a star on a silent deadly night.
The vision is the vision of the vision. Cry for the elected.
Punishment after raising his hand is the sentence.
Looks like the calm breaks the cold obstinacy between the fingers of the homage.
Reasons to the suicide of everything dead before my eyes.

Break every part of reality to build the theory upon which lives the dying at birth and the elderly when falling under the blazing light of truth. Cry for the revenge of absolute chaos trying to be appeased to resurface.

In him, you cry. Insanity hates the minds.
Bull motherfucking shit is the horde to guide.
Appealing senses, fall to your knees.
Not a single tear, chaos is bliss.

Crimes that must be committed for the sake of order that no one understands.
The hole of a newborn’s head spills power, armed with self-destruction.
How can the nonsense made such a misunderstanding of this nothingness?
Take a walk, you think on you, and show your cards to the mirror.
Looking to survive, being crazy meant something when my legs were shaking.
Punishment after raising his hand is the sentence.
Display pictures to show what the world wants to make of you.
Reasons to the suicide of everything dead before my eyes.

In him, you cry. Insanity hates the minds.
Bull motherfucking shit is the horde to guide.
Appealing senses, fall to your knees.
Not a single tear, chaos is bliss.

Chaos.

It itself breaks the word’s meaning.
Hateful light spheres.

Only the mad survive here.
War inside a war for a living.

Now bring your complaints, we’ll create dreams with them while you are forced down to the primary part of your being where we’ll make what the world wants from you.
Climb over your memories to use them as a lethal weapon in the internal struggle you have to bring in those who only know how  to ignore.
Cry, cry, cry unto him, insanity hates  the minds because of the lack of comprehension. ‘Cause insanity is the comprehension, and you come to make out the will of your heart.

Dosis de odio (I)

A veces me gusta escupir en la cara a todo lo que tengo delante. Por combatir el tedio pienso, por que odio lo que veo, llego a la conclusión. No sé que clase de sinsentido injustificadamente deplorable es aquel que empuja a todo hijo de vecino a ser un niño del siglo XXI. Un niño muerto, más muerto que el futuro de aquel que nace en Ruanda. Está bien la afirmación 'creo en lo que veo', yo mismo la uso especialmente tratándose de cosas como las creencias en seres superiores, etc. Pero ahí radica la diferencia. Creencias, introspecciones, pensamientos. No imágenes cuyo único destino es acabar convirtiéndoos en una oveja. Más medios, más extremismos. Extremismos ridículos, diría. Porque como he comentado, no me refiero a creencias en vuestro caso, si no a imágenes. Lo visual. Estoy de acuerdo en que algo bien hecho atrae, ¿pero realmente forma parte de los cimientos de la personalidad? Tristemente cierto, hoy día. 'Chica Tumblr', es una de esas expresiones que me hace gracia. Crías obsesionadas con ser alguien mediante imágenes y su aspecto exterior. Corazas vacías, como puedo comprobar in situ. No estaría de más probar a hacer de eso que os ocupa 24/7 solo una parte del todo. El enriquecimiento personal está excesivamente infravalorado por el hecho de querer dar una imagen de cara a los demás. Ante todo esto, ¿como no me voy a pasar las opiniones de la gente por el culo? Si todo sale de mentes vacías, me resulta imposible tomaros en serio. Lo que no entiendo es como esa clase de gente está a gusto consigo misma cada noche en esos momentos de pensamiento profundo y etéreo al mismo tiempo justo antes de dormir. Quizá la clave esté en que ni siquiera lo etéreo sobrevuele vuestros cerebros y ni siquiera aquello que veis tenga un sentido para vosotros. Cuando claramente el mensaje de 'eres gilipollas' se oye a gritos.

Merope Gaunt

What have I done?

Saliva extends into the soil. Proclaimed.

Cries and whispers converge on the wall.

Punishment and sensitivity, pure steel. Mask.

I smell the horror.

And the branches whip the sky again.

Conductor of everlasting analogies.

The sun in the water, moon in the sand.

Chaos is the holy kingdom.

Grown unto flesh and bone.

Bright yellow great defining sun.

See what I have done.

Unleash the lion again.

See the trees grow.

Capsize the water unto you.

Bleed the hand of doom.

The stone marks thy word.

The wood holds the cross.

The flesh bites the glass.

The blank eyes, death mass.

Thus, the flame is extinguished in the crib intended to be reduced to ashes. And so the children play with sparks of fire and burned entrails. Is thy eye capable to accuse the guilty letting the innocent free? The hand speaks gloom as it’s dying blackened.

The water into two.

Sprinkled with rage, the collar.

Lie back upon selfish betrayal.

Silver coins under the dead fabrics.

You’ll take the dive

The children abused by snakes.

The sun climbing up the hills.

Swollen eyes to the sight of piss.

Hear the unhearted cry out.

Kindred of Frances, the sad.

Now take the rotten opal.

Drive the father insanely mad.

The stone marks thy word.

The wood holds the cross.

The flesh bites the glass.

The blank eyes, death mass.

I owe my life to those to whom I owe my death.

I owe my life to those to whom I owe my death.

An(a)Chronic

The dawn falls.

The dusk raises over an object that catches a glimpse of the calm sea’s  inclemencies.

Of how tongues are burned and shadows come along inside the dogs’ ears.

The man takes eight steps forward while his eyes look inside his brain showing themselves blank and dead.

Each one of the fingernails broke in contact with the steel of the caresses received from the hammer of the witches.

Violation of a blindman on to the vision of realities beyond comprehension, that's how tar is spilled from the lungs of the voice who seems to know everything.

And the man is dumb, and his ears cry with every step of his knees.

Deny per system the systematically needed for the perpetuation of the intellectual evolution.

And the man never sleeps alone, for he never has to sleep between the sheets of the cold voice from the sepulcher.

As round is the Earth from the dawn of creation, life is torn from the mother of the prodigal son.

Shakespeare as the paradigm of the stupidity and the arrogance of the hand from the being created by his own unique memory.

And the man becomes the blind confidence of being eaten by spiders, of being embraced by the stars unknown to his eyes, those to he won’t never give credit if it’s not burning his dead eyes with them.

Out of an era, outside of its era, the object spits words.

Sculpts hate on the trees that give way to other realms, where the dead woman becomes the widow and the son is stabbed.

And so the dawn falls on the dusk of the chaos of the denial and the acceptance of the everything and the nothing.

And as the man walks down a rope made from his veins, hence the object takes the fire to burn the rain.

The blood of the ghosts is the blood to come alive.

Oopart.

Mirrors to the animals, meat for the plants.

Walk among the invertebrates with life at your feet while reciting words that are meaningless to you.

Falls the veil behind which hides the discipline of the blunt blades.

That’s how the man accepts the fate of his eyes, while his wrists bleed.

Sons of nothing. Fathers of incorruptible lies.

The object brings the sound of revenge amongst mild whispers of the tides created by the moon hidden behind the mountain.

Anachronistic path. Excessive future. Sons of nothing.

Blue Equinox

A man emerges from slaughtered sheep heads. The lip collector taxidermist carries the burden of creation, of the will.
Without a sackcloth to tie his thelema , his desire, the word of God.
Are there body parts at your door waiting to be eaten?

Escape through the darkness of the ideas conceived to bring light.

Altered consciousness as pure awareness. The ideals.
Grace, honor, praise, delight, here are day and night.
Free will based on a law, the hand of men stained with angel tears.
Remember the lake of blood, remember the white sheets, remember who you are.

Escape through the darkness of the ideas conceived to bring light.

Eat the glass in which you look upon.
Sing your psalms with bloody fists.
Decrepit fingers pointing all.
Conceived from the stabbing.

Raise your entrails as an offer.
Bring your freedom to chains.
Cattle footsteps, crooked nails.
The throne has died forever.

Caerimonia mentis, nigrum sol cuius lux vivit in omnis de nobis. Magister attollit manu.
Nos interficiam nostra.

The snow piles up in the corpses. By the equinox rain will fall.
Blinded by heaven, the trinkets you gave have all rusted down.

The cross has fallen in front of the eyes as a veil full of chips, spilled are the wine and the semen from the acolytes of the chained freedom.
The night sky drops its life on blades of grass, the reality reveals the scars. The lips are now sealed in the shards.

Concealing Of Infinity's Depths (Work in progress)

PART I: RA

Sarcophagus. Body, incarcerated flesh. Birth, dawn. Open sky.
The carrion waits to be devoured.

PART II: SUTEJ

As a vicious cycle of an unfinished theory of who's the ghost looking at the world below, you suffocate.
Path to be walked with feet full of nails.
Days of uncertainty at the vision of your dark achievements.
It´s hard to grow up upon mirrors and scars of cement.
A wild animal has been called by one of the seven keys.
It is the beast who sheds blood, not tears.
The first key holds the light, the second the grief.
As an unfinished theory of who you are, you believe.
Chaos as a way to understand the viscera.
The third key opens the sarcophagus of the bleeder.

Conclusion by illusion. A hell inside of the chosen for the absolution.

Humanity fades in favor of the solemn deity of destruction. The fourth key holds thy name.

The earth trembles at the passage of the plagues of trust.
Upheaval in the sky under which lurks the ghost.
The fifth key comes to hold the sin.
Fetterless, the mirror's truth breaks the dream.
Embodied in destruction, fire whips the icy life.
The sixth key hides the sheath of the knife.
Among thorns your hands will find the blood they need.
Among fear the name of the ghost you will bleed.

Conclusion by illusion. A hell inside of the chosen for the absolution.
Damnation by infection. The burning remains of the soul of destruction.

Pain equals life. Life equals death. A shore to pledge. A rotten slave.
The seventh key is the one which gives you the darkness of mind to open your eyes.
The seventh key holds the darkness, it holds your ghost heart.

As a vicious cycle of an unfinished theory of who's the ghost looking at the world below.

PART III: MAAT

Having descended into the underworld you resurface like a phoenix now unwilling to take flight again.
The time comes for suffering to fade upon the memories you wield like blades.

Fraternize with the errors of oneself as a way of seeing beyond the keyhole.The unholy shore.
Crawling through the embers of the indulgence of the human being to not end up eaten by blood.
Take back. Ghost heart.

Achieve what once you rejected to see in you. A body separated from his soul that now looks for the way back.
Stare at destruction in its raw face and break the keys that lock and release the beast, restore the order, the balance.

The sand slips through your fingers, but now you're aware of it. You see people´s faces.
You see how they suffer. How they suffer for you and you´re careless years of blind existence.

Step into vacuum, firm step into the void, to the whole you´re not looking for, but which you find.
Out of nothingness comes the creation, in whose number you as a man take refuge. Deucalion, Phyrra. Nine.

Under the eternal rain you suffer and atone for your sins to rebuild the scales in your favor. To emerge like a phoenix, but without wings.
Ghost heart.

Sarcophagus. Sacred. Bleeding. Unscarred. New Dawn. Seven. The nine.

The scars that cross your face are a reflection of the mutilated lives you left behind you, for not being able to look at the people you love face to face and tell them to save you.
But today the time comes for you to crucify yourself and come out alive.

The viscera takes a step back in favor of the cold resolution of a being who will not see through his hands anymore.
As a vicious cycle of an unfinished theory of who's the ghost looking at the world below, you now seem to know what you were looking for.