Revelator

Two wings of the choir Crushed by Te Deum and Dies Irae. Rioting crowds clamber, Not with a whimper but a whine. A poor cur’s lapse. Square dwellers begging for change, An arid spring. Cold, unmarked, grave. Birds flown to entropical climes. Sore ire cysts sick eyes saw. Poised upon collapse A poor cur’s lapse. And with a pauper’s lisp In slips apocalypse. The lying and the lamb: Unlikely bedfallows. Cloistered bones, now free, Hung from streetlights, gibbering. Tongue-tied tastemakers, Sage and sinnerman, Where ya gonna run to? Babel on. One final brass blast Of an Arc/Angles geomatria. Seize to exist. Yea, judge me But parse sentences. Heartbeaten, youthless. The long liquid list. Yea, judge me But parse sentences.

Submitted by Grave666 — Apr 26, 2025

Kaliyuga, Roman a-Kaliph: Rioting crowds clamber. High priest of the hip gnosis. Cog dollared, sintaxed, Preaching for stares In the bend of a neck. Stern man on the mount. Master of collusions. Apocaliphate. Successions Of your untied states: A silted delta of cents. Kaliyuga, A twist of Tarot wrist: Our future in rows and lays. The hollow ritual of suffer-rage. Poison: “Fight for the right to bare arms.” Apocaliphate. Successions Of your untied states. The final successions Of your untied states: A repressed unpopulous Trading inner sense For prophets. That was the whimper Of our discontent. The fisherking distributes Poisson and anti-doubt: “Fight for the right to bare arms.” …(Or conceal, conscript or cross them.)… “Sinking scrapheap ships.” …(And their shivering boarders)… “A commonwealth” ...(of common filth)… …(the weak shall inherit the work)… Very impotent people Vary in portent. You better run from The City of Refuse.

Submitted by Iron_Wraith — Apr 26, 2025

One soul smeared too thin. Or torn, raw-edged and aching. Eternally tangled together Past flesh, beyond bone. She steals the light from me, My night bruises her face. Only our muted hate To fill the cold hour. (Dragged down in dreams of jealousy). Only our muted hate To fill the cold. One of us must go. One of us. Convicted for the crime Of consciousness conjoined. Slipping cord that binds Is knotted, is noosed on our necks. She steals the light from me, My night bruises her face. (Another face boils Under mine in the mirror). Only our muted hate To fill the cold hour. (Dragged down in dreams of jealousy). Only our muted hate To fill the cold. One of us must go. One of us. We’ll increase with subtraction. But combined, zero sum. If she rises from the fire I’ll choke on her ash. Reaching beyond The bars of my breast, I stifle the heart Of my silent twin. Reaching beyond the bars, I stifle the heart Of my silent twin.

Submitted by Nargaroth — Apr 26, 2025

Unabel am I, My words in murdermouth. In the bell of throat a mark is jarr’d. To err is human I am the king of men. Master of collusions in The first three ticks of Time. Pixels of my skin in the sun. A palimpsest limp Under layers of lacquer. Forshaken, The quavering crotchets of my stave. Sage and sinnerman: “You oughta be preyin’” Master of collusions in The first three ticks of Time. The knife in my back Is a key winding down. Skin thin as biblepage. Heals in the tug, so tired. Weight for the wave, tsun on me: My era of errors erased. My frozen kneecaps Melt and flood the seize, An overtaxed levee. The pie-eyed piper Trailing shamblin’ children. Mice-ash and raw ones, Foreshaken, Chilled, ring my heart. All kneel, elated. Annihilated. Psoriastasis. My skin in the wind Sloughs off in sheets. A palimpsest limp. Pixels of my skin in the sun. Skin thin as biblepage.

Submitted by Dahmers Fridge — Apr 26, 2025

Waif and Pardoner Two babels in arms. I, Shiva, in her winds, Twitch like a cur-tongue. The last twitch, flickers of desire. The trysts and turns. The burden of the body bodes Of sin new and vain tangle; Of sole trades for slave salve. A Medean archetypecaste Combing a serpent’s coils, Six slit cysts On its wrists, Finds fractured footholds And climbs up my spine. Kick ensnared Grown from gravedirt. A deimondess. Flips faces like a coin. Umbillically wound wound-wise. Noosed, lowered then loosed. Waxed and waning, a lunatic skull. Syllables of name Drop like stones From the mouth. Waxed and waning, a lunatic skull. Its tidal pulls of uterine brine. Kalipha Kaligulant: A man’s true blood. Sixual Demiurge. God in four letters. God in four letters.

Submitted by Iron_Wraith — Apr 26, 2025

Torn by torment and tumbled to terra, Fall fell, fell foul. Back in chaos like a divining bell. Fallen, still falling. We fallways all. Heartbeaten and scatterleaving Fall from wold to world. Fallen, still falling. We fallways all. Heartbeaten and scatterleaving L’enfer motion Mary (typhoid), adamant, evenly splits, Aleph (aloof), a fool, accepts A tapeworm tangled round the stolen seed. And falling on forbidden fruit We named, and knew, and rued things. Fallen, still falling. We fallways all. Heartbeaten and scatterleaving Fall from wold to world. Fallen, still falling. We fallways all. Heartbeaten and scatterleaving L’enfer motion What rumour of the host Does the tumour boast? What do riders know of mount Bar blood dripping from whipping? What if what you know as “You” Is a parasite? You better run from the city Of refuse. An awareness of wearing less And the harness of History. The bastard babies borne into blood. A daymans’s wrist in the pangenecyst. Fallen, still falling. We fallways all.

Submitted by Celtic Frost — Apr 26, 2025

This track is instrumental.

Is this song not instrumental?

A dayman, I cover my eyes, Blinded by sunset and rise. Irony is an escape from history. Hook in my cheek like tongue. From freeways to buyways, Streets bisect streets. Two polar lamps in the lostlight Parazeit and the Master of Collisions. Traces of the tangled timetrail Like smears of tire on the tar. Weight of my weakness In their weft. From freeways to buyways, Streets bisect streets. I’d read a dreadfull fall: Homes quaking on clayfeet. Parazeit, underparsed, Bypast and passed over. In the silted delta of streets, Down to crossroads. A bleak bargain was struck. A weak will was waged. Parazeit hovers at history’s hind, A weak will. Wonderlost in infirm motion. Collisions, history’s knifeblade, Shears off the streets. What remains after the clash Between them? What remains after the clash, Must rise from rubble and ash. What remains after the clash? A shattering of bone and glass. A dayman, I cover my eyes, Blinded by sunset and rise. Irony is an escape from history. Hook in my cheek like tongue.

Submitted by Iron_Wraith — Apr 26, 2025

I will blooddye the doors of my house And flood chambers of lung and heart. I will blooddye the doors of my house And flood deltas of the vein. I dig through my navel. Feel the unravelling of bones And the deltas of the vein, Now noosely knotted. This unspooling body… What worth is one in this world? (A hail of nails In the hardwood) What good a protector Who varies in potence? (The weight of their Weakness in my weft). What use a cystem Enslaved to its shivering? Unmanned, dismantled I’ll make a tent of my skin. I’ll sever the heartstring To allow them their run. I will blooddye the doors of my house And flood chambers of lung and heart. I will blooddye the doors of my house And flood deltas of the vein. I unspill the thread of my gut. Tie it in a thresher’s hold. Build the brick of my muscles I ask you to enshrine my failures. They are the synbols of man. I ask you to discard my flesh. It is the synbol of mud. I ask you for silence on my soul. Please see my grave is kept clean. I ask you for silence on my soul. I ask you to discard my flesh. Dipping my palms deep in my well I withdraw a butcher’s tell, The slickly coagulant gloves. I smear my prayer, crosswise, on the door.

Submitted by Corpse Grinder — Apr 26, 2025