Cosmogyral Miscarriage

Mankind claims to be the crown of creation,
Superior genesis equals alienation.
Just a casualty in the infinite space,
And that lie is called the human grace.

Destroy where we come from.

Existence is build on pure monstrosity,
Annihilating all the beauty beneath dignity,
Exploiting the voiceless with wild growing greed.
There is not much blood left for this sphere to bleed.

Enslave what is left.

Just a lunacy at the edge of the universe,
And I’m the chosen, I’m mankinds curse.
I’ll free the patient from its contagion:
Cosmogyral, miscarriage population.

Destroy where we come from.
Enslave what is left.
We are nothing but obsolete,
But we act like we're the best.

Cosmogyral Miscarriage

Artificial Exitus

The stench of excrements is choking my throat. Ruthless white light is blinding my eyes. Despised I look on the bed, this altar of endless pain. Sometimes a grave is much bigger than a coffin. (Sometimes a grave is much bigger than a coffin.)

Slowly I approach, curious, disgusted. I want to see the face of a soul completely exiled. Light-headed because of the increasing malodor. I bear down the craving to throw up so I can get closer.

(I) It is just (see) a shell. (The) Stinking, rotting (Light) fading away. (In) What separates (Side) life from death. (My) A quick slash (head) right through the throat. What lays down there is no more alive than a mother, who lost her little daughter to decaying cancer. Hear the beeping sounds of merciless machines. Bound to white-sheeted scaffold he lays. (Sometimes a grave is much bigger than a coffin.) My mission is clear, I grasp the knife. His eyes are closed, so peacefully he dies. The red sprays into my face, I take a deep breath, finally he is free.

(I) It is just (see) a shell. (The) Stinking, rotting (Light) fading away. (In) What separates (Side) life from death. (My) A quick slash (head) right through the throat. The stench of excrements is choking my throat. Merciless white light is blinding my eyes. Deeply despaired I look on the converging walls. Sometimes a grave is much bigger than a coffin.

Artificial Exitus

I was the first born child this world had ever seen.
My mother suffered for me her first time.
The gift of life, the gift of love, she gave it to me.
Her only child. Her only son. A new hope.
(I’m her child, I’m her son!)

How does it feel? The edge of my axe opens your chest.
How does it feel? Your life squirts red into my face.

And then her belly grew big again.
I was curious to see how a human life rises.
Happily I shared everything I've ever learned.
I loved you my blood, my flesh, my brother the thief.

How does it feel? The edge of my axe opens your chest.
How does it feel? Your life squirts red into my face.

We get older, grew together, shared our goods.
Yours was the cattle, mine the fields and both of us we oblate.

It all comes down to blood.
And I’ll take back what’s mine.

Every week a calf lost her life to your knife.
Every week I burnt crop to gratify the almighty god.

It all comes down to blood.
And I’ll take back what’s mine.

(I was the first murderer) this world had ever seen.
So god accept my offering this time,
I hope you like it, it's blood and flesh.
Her only child, her only son. A bloody mark.

I don't know how it feels to be this weak.
Because I stand firm as a rock on the blood-wet ground.

It All Comes Down To Blood

I’ve told them all. Don’t build this chamber in which your voice dies away unheard. I’ve been there, when pure hatred resolves in a violent shadow play.

Just type the cryptic words in and feel the illuminating power of mysteries so unhoped-for swallow the code to solve the puzzle of wisdom.

I’ve heard them all. The hateful gibberish, the priggish talks at the regulars’ table. I’ve been there, when kings condemned gods for telling fables.

Conspiracy of the sheep.

The truth is a shortspoken harlot, who shares her bed with money and blood. She never smiles for her admirers, who’re perishing in piss and mud.

I’ve seen them all. The paranoid eyes, their dead easy questions. Battered children, crying asleep. I’ve been there, when harmless sheep slaughtered the cattle, when self-crowned prophets fell so deep.

Conspiracy of the sheep.

The truth is a shortspoken harlot, who shares her bed with money and blood. She never smiles for her admirers, who’re perishing in piss and mud.

I’ve had enough. My seat on this feast for crows stays empty. What about you? You’ll be there, gulping chunks of rotten lamb, pretending you never knew.

Just type the cryptic words in and feel the illuminating power of mysteries so unhoped-for swallow the code to solve the puzzle of wisdom.

BurnDownEden