Mass Grave Aesthetics from "From the Entrails to the Dirt" Split
"What matter the victims, provided the gesture is beautiful? What matters the death of vague human beings, if thereby the individual affirms himself?" - Laurent Tailhade
The black Idol emerges as a silver lining in a dust cloud of death, eerie parallel tongues and the piping of heaven the culture of transgression is mine and my descent makes me ascend in a repugnant swirl...
Sic volo, Sic jubeo, Stat pro ratione voluntas.
The black Idol fills the veil of flesh with noxious smoke, depicting primal human experiences indifferently, contemptuous of moral concerns, dehumanized. The howling of wolves and the destructive sword are portions of Eternity, too great for the eyes of merely a man...
Transcendence of thresholds occurs with violence, and will for Vice is like the mind's dark radiance which blinds and of which I'm dying. Corruption is the spiritual cancer reigning in the depths of things and it fills until the last cell of my vivid being. Dissolution and putrefaction, prevailing Aesthetic experience, the splendor of the obscene and inhuman; for what matters the death of a vague human beings if thereby the individual affirms himself?
Violence exists in the moment when the eye turns upwards into the head, when inversion is complete and total the darkness of the upturned eye is not the absence of light, but the process of seeing being taken to its limit. That thorough derangement of the senses, way beyond the deceptive conflict between darkness and light opens perceptions to the tyranny of the Shekhinah...
Si non credideritis, non inteligetis.
The dimension of ethereal totalitarianism discloses itself and takes possession of the quintessential human soul like a nail hammered through most tender flesh. Aeons separate the one whose eyes have seen through the night of the spirit. The king, the Lord of hosts, draped in terrifying magnificence from the gleaming clot of trembling vermin. If a faith and a belief aren't nurtured by the moist of blood, they do not grow, nor do they live. It is at the magnitude of daily murders, massacres and mass graves that we do measure the propagation of our faith. Hearken and recognize, that hideous carrion with legs in the air, like a whore - displayed, indifferent to the last. A belly slick with lethal sweat and swollen with foul gas...
This is you, nourishing the grand Mass Grave Aesthetics!