this is !SICK! love it. too much to comment on. great words.

Brilliant and poetic! (not exactly Dr. Finlay's Casebook, though...)

Dense and beguiling, a woven tale of monotheism and industrialisation from a pagan perspective that invites apocalypse. Vivid and intense.

amazing work. that phrase hits me hard every time. geometry of spiritual famine... what a thing to write.. this whole piece is just stunningly brilliant. your voice on this one..sounds like an old oak tree lent you its voice. i love it. i wish i were better with words, if only to more effectively express my appreciation.

Spoken largely in Anglified, Lowlander 'Auld Scots'.

Pummelim' rain and wild gale seldom lets up ower the northern wud. Day thru night it pishes doon on man an' beast the same, batterin' oot like the beat o' a thoosan snare drums ontae this immense canopy o' ailin' leaves. The dense, mutated, mingin' flair o' the forest is splayed by sallowmead burn, spatterin' wi the efterbirth o' aw manner o' slurry. Made pregnant by the storm, it gushes through the bent auld trees in a surgin' riot o' gurglin', hoachin' spew. Way up, on Hilbyn crag, the jutted gnashers o' the stonnin' stanes are shot through by mental, whiplash winds in a winjin' lament o' feart moans. The gurn sweeps ootwise, soakin' aw quarters o' this gnarly landscape.

Rabid witnesses tae the céilidh o' despair, the beasts that dart between the trees huv taken on a carny o' grotesque arrangement, theirsels infected by a hoor o' a hideous air that pollutes their very core. The seethin' sky hings ower like a Cailleach that's lost her canniness in the fray, and donned the garb o' the gruesome.

Nowt in this babble hus been able to flee the flagrant swerve o' the machine. The writhin' forest contorts itsel intae a curdle o' slime and scum, afore it's mashed by concrete. Inch tae mile the map is blackened. Ut the ootskirts, trees gie way tay the swamps, which in turn, gurgle and fizzle oot and surrender tae the bide o' man. Ower these bleak estates, the skips are fu' ae used-up gunk. barrels blaze and scabby wains forage, tattered buzzards circle ower-heid and the songs o' the auld yins are silenced. Abandoned shops, where eagre craftsmen yince laboured fur a croon, dot the broken city blocks wi' the rusted carcasses o' battered, banged-up machinery.

Uye since the men o' the cloth in their sterched collars set their pious plans in motion hus it been this way, uye since the aged kings o' the eether vanished and the puritanical, jealous, god of gloom triumphed, has sorrowful slavery held sway. Gaither 'roon, can ye no hear the congregation being shafted frae the pulpit, as the wee boys are buggered in the choir stalls efterwards? Mibby these gibberin' preachers mimic the utterances of holy men, but their banter is twisted wae resoundin' hypocricy and guilt-inducin' edict. Believe you me, the kirk hus created a quasi-religious crypto-fascism, and wae their sick skulduggery, ushered in a weak and baneful cult of the martyr that has driven the natural fever frae oor hearts. Now all must bow before the clergy of the crucified and their gallus dominion. Here is the geometry o' spiritual famine.

Ken yer muther as baith liberator and destroyer. Takin' on the mantle o' the embittered crone, she hings ower us aw wae the intent tae annihilate us all. She flies as a murder ae crows, claws ootstretched an' graspin', a glintin' beak o' crimson. Wae an instinct for survival far beyond oor ain, she's high queen o' carnage, specter o' violence, emphatic answer tae the call.

Mezmerized by the reflection ae oorsels, we got gassed wi' power, obsessed wi' endless turf-war, an spoilt wi' the swaggerin' cut o' oor ain cloot. Thinkin' wur aw that, noo wur damned by oor ain design. It's led us tae ruin, and no before time! The last harvest left a stockpile picked ower like the morn ud never come- and now she's here tae make it so. The question was never aboot savin' the earth, but whither or no she would spare us. Notions o' salvation are nowt but ashes in the fire.

And so, wi' that in mind, ah commit ma'sel to communion wi the divine hag o' death, and strike up a blood-oath wi the now-rancid wilderness! Reborn am I unto the brandished scythe, consort to the slut of sickness, and determined by passionate tribulation. My quest is in keepin' wi the law of return, tae assist the seethin' matriarchal leveller- so that she may breathe again.

Bein' fae ancient ghosts, ah'm versed in the ken o' this world, and ah observe it as a platform frae which human destiny unfolds... You monkeys have had yer day. Ye grievously took it that yer stewardship was ownership- and this is yer last, fatal mistake. Kiss goodbye to everythin' eev came tae rely on, and git yersels ready for a party that ull aw end in tears, in accordance wi' yer tragically ironic whispert prayers.

Let me tell ee' o' ma self-appointed homelessness, my yearning for the success o' yer finaglin' failure, my sky-flung charmin' o' the heavens to plummet and crush aw hominal heirs. My lair is a cave, perched on an ootcropping atop the rocks of Hilbyn. Av imbued it wae the darkest energies o' bedlam, its walls hiss a hunner blasphemies and its herth oozes the blood of yer screechin' wains. Frae this hideous dwelling it is but a short donner to the hail-battered dolmens o' the iniquitous deid, thut take many a shape an' form. These ignobely capped pillars act as gateways to various planes o' existence, an' ah'v plotted them a' through decades of restlessness.

When ah git tae the portal, ah'l barter an' babble wae the spirit that resides within, and ma incantations o' poison 'ul whip through the aeons until the cosmic cycles strike doon! Hear these schemes, insect hoard. Wae clandestine rite and elemental conspiracy I will bridge the gulf betwixt the worlds until gleeful desolation is delivered. Ower the nicht that follows ah'll weave my haggared craft under the vanishing moon, and gurglin' blood will fill mine eyes. The minds of yer populace will stew and yer thrones o' straw will be incinerated. I will watch the doonfaw o' yer tepid theology, hear the croaks o' yer putrid political systems, and light ma black candles as ma ain body is cooked in the inferno. Before my eyes upturn and the maggots feast, I will grunt a final sigh amid the charred floowers, an take ma energies elsewhere to savour the next annihilation.

Comments

Gav Locked

Bill Greasy

Mosestone

Babalon Anon Spoken Word

jack heathen

Worzel Swaytooth

thedarkofmaya