Lucifer’s Merth

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 murder

of a playful kind. Hecatombs, artistic as day‒ homes

like Tophet for children to play. But whose poison

to kill me sooner, under Black Suns and darkened 

hearts, as Lucifer capers down the burrow.