we are the carrion that
will feed our gods
come and devour us
may they rend us
limb from

YNgwie (…) eeeee (…) ooooo (…) aaaaaeeeeoooo
The guitar screamed. A painful lullaby. A high pitched electric crescendo, combining Bach, Beethoven and Handel! Ah the greats: Gary Moore, Steve Vai, Joe Satriani and the legendary Malmsteen himself!

It was devotion, like dark stars exiting the speed of light to escape velocity, we pushed past the last memories of all the shit that had gone before (…) literally pushing ourselves out into the water, like the last fucking polar bears. Realising that our time had come, leaping into annihilation from the remnants of our little ice-islands, into the void of death and drowning (…) let us become one with the old gods, with the deep sea, where rests the ghosts of civilisations the pre-date our own, and yet are waiting to come again and take over the surface (…) for what is surface built on clay except a shit-stink for carrion-eaters!

We were not all religious types, some like Carlo had studied in the seminary, but others like Francesca just liked to fuck. Who didn’t after all, religion was just about placing taboos, so that transgression tasted sweeter and you could punish the guilty according to your whims and particular tastes. Fucking idiots, all just ready to lick out the assholes of their betters, and who better than I, Arturo, last survivor of a long line of Venetian peasants and criminals. My ancestors had been raping and stealing in alleyways from the earliest times of the Republic. Fuck all these books and their stories that made the weak hasten to heaven’s retirement villages (…) aaahh rapture, rapture (…) now (as ever) we worshipped the worm! The worm who infested our faeces (…) oh great devourer of our shit and intestines (…) and the bacteria and waste matter from which the worm grew fat and well-nourished…our worthless flesh! Abomination, that we must repent and defenestrate and flagellate, when we weren’t busy fucking, to replenish the population and thereby the food supply of the great worm: more to chastise, more to fuck (…) we were the chosen of God, and so were free to do what we wished. Time and isolation had proven this.

Da da da da (…) wheeeeee (…) oooooooohhhhaaaahh (…)
crashhh (…) kerranngggg (…) did you ever see Far Beyond the Sun played out with a full Japanese orchestra? Actually I had been a physicist, and not a particularly religious one (…) although I accompanied my mother to church (…) more out of habit than duty (…) she could no longer beat me, and my vicious brute of a father was long dead (…) they found his body many days after the heart attack (…) out in the countryside near Puglia where he had been on holiday by himself (…) we went to identify it, mother and I. In the mortuary (…) being summer the temperature regulation must not have been sufficient, for all of a sudden a worm came out of his mouth (…) this image of the worm stuck with me. Even in my first carnal encounters, first with a fellow student at the University, I felt the stench of my father as I rode his corpse. And later with Angela, oh so proud and uptight Angela (…) I would watch the worms exiting her eyes as my worm found its way into her asshole. She loved being fucked in the asshole, it always allowed her to act out her rape fantasies: “You fucking bastard, no anywhere but there. Please no, I am a virgin, at least in my asshole. Please spare me.’

And then she would be grunting like a wrestler, or a chimpanzee: ‘Oh yes, fucking hell. Ah Christ on a stick, fuck me harder you fucking pussy, you fucking spindle-dick motherfucking mummy’s boy.’ Needless to say, she acted very differently in the lab. Practically pretended I didn’t exist. Fucking bitch. Even now, on this island, I think of her often. When whipping or fucking some young boy or old matriarch, when I can’t get sufficient inspiration I think of Angela (…) or Yngwie: ooooooohhh, eee, oowww, wwwweeeeooooooo (…) ah his fingers move so fast! It is my first and last inspiration. And maybe that is what binds us together: we all have a religion of sorts, the worm merely a satisfactory metaphor for our obsessions, and our mutual desire, in this twilight of the world, to inflict pain and pleasure on one another.

We had had no new arrivals on the island for some months. Maybe people were staying away. No matter, we were fairly self-sufficient: we had planted vegetable gardens, and apart from a largely vegetarian diet, kept a few pigs and chickens for the occasional feast-sacrifice. And we used nets to dredge shellfish from the lagoon. Occasionally we made trips to the mainland to salvage robes and other vestments from now empty churches, a few rotten corpses to guard their memories. Overcome by worms, we had little time to stop and pray and venerate these elders who had given up their faith to become hosts to the older gods, those who had come before. You see, in the new hierarchy we religious types were viewed disparagingly by the other survivors. They would kill us on sight.

We seemed to get up their noses. Why they hated us so much we couldn’t tell. They liked to fuck and so did we, but they didn’t understand and care about decay and the passage of time, backwards into pre-time. Their souls didn’t have the sensitivity to understand the charnel house that the world has always been. Fleeting and ephemeral: to grasp after a security that was never ours, and never our birthright. We were not the fulcrum of this constellation, we were just the food of those who had come before and will be again. Their brethren, left to feed on us as sustenance and measure of their true forms: devourer of worlds:

Eeeeee (…) oooooo (…) eeee (…)
aaaaahhhh (…) dededededddooooddadaaddoooe eeee (…)
the fastest man on guitar!

We were like the speculative dark stars, aspiring to escape velocity, while mistakenly identifying this as our story. It was only left us to enjoy pain and pleasure till our time is finished. We used to discriminate, but we have so few visitors now, we take what we can get. We must continue in the face of oblivion, this is our perverse religion, to propagate and enlarge our commune, so that we might provide more sustenance to those envoys of the elder gods who would eat our flesh that the engines might be set in motion and the elder gods walk the earth once more, and finish what has begun, and feed directly off those of us who remain!

And so when the boat came ashore, we went rushing to greet these new arrivals: a dusky beauty and her pale paramour. Ah, both looked delectable and we invited them to a feast of welcome in their honour. If they would come and freshen themselves and rest, a night of splendour would be revealed. With a bit in her teeth like a true professional, she bore her whipping with dignified pleasure. Her corneas inflamed with rage and passion, her man and others taking turns to whip and be whipped in turn. 2754 bastards don’t know you’re here, far beyond the sun. Depending on my mood, certainly. And if I went from liking to indifference/dislike, some people will outright hate it. Not because they have a short attention span, but because they hate it._

He is masturbating with a guitar, haha. This bitchy need to shut people up is making such a little bitch out of you, I know you’re here whispering a prayer.

For the Love of God:
Weee,wwooowowee eyeyeppwpwpeippeeepepeyoooouuuueeeewawawawawweewewewweeewewewew ewewoooooooyooyooyoooyooyaayayazipzabzoooommeoeoeoeoeoeoeoowaawawa awawaooohheeeeehooowwwooooohhhwaawawaweewweewaawaweeweeraaahhr ooooeeeeoooohhhhahhhhooohhuuummmeeeeeeeewaawaawooowooooowawawaw awowowoeieowowieioooooooaahhhhhhyouyouuuuuueeeeeeooooooananananaww awawawawaeeeehhhyoooooowwdededdeddahdoooozzziiimmmzazazazeeezooooo eeeeeeooooohhaaahhyuummeeeooeoeooeoooooeeeeeeoooewweweweweooooooow aoooowaoowaoooooooeoeoeoeoeooooooowawawawawwhhhhyyyyyyooowwwww wwweeeaaahhoooohooohoohoohwawawawawweeweweweewewaazaaammamao oooaaahhyowyowyowyoweeeblableeblooblablolablobleeyowieyowieooowaaahooo haaaahzzooooommmmmeeeeeeeeyooouuuiiiiiiiieeeeeeeoooohhhaaaahhhzzzzzeee eeeeooooowwaoaoowowoweeeeeyyouyyaayyaoiuuuuuuueeeeetisshhhhhhhhhhh!

Applause, slow burn out of cymbals (…)

I used to watch Tina S over and over, what talent in one so young, the way she played the greats: Vai, Moore, Van Halen and of course Yngwie (…) She was trolled a lot, both by those envious of her skill and by cynics who felt she had nothing original to contribute. Does she still exist, did she take her own life? I think if I was to have a daughter, I would be very proud to have someone like her as my child. I wonder if the memory of the trolls drove her to take her own life, or whether it was a lingering melancholy at the emptiness of this vast existence. I wonder what her body looks like, perhaps half-naked and worm-ridden? Or whether she is alive, blissfully forcefully alive, and might even make her way here to the island (Bad Lieutenant). Whether she was eaten by cannibals, in some small Mid-western town, from which she comes (came). Or whether she is a goddess/high priestess of her own commune, dedicated to her skill and talent! Oh Tina, may you ever walk amongst us, and watch over us! Oh pure 16-year old of my heart, you who already melted my heart, playing your truthful, acoustic version of Let It Be for all of us on Youtube while still a child! Like a female Christ-child, your skill with the guitar nothing short of miraculous!

All those awful people, wanting to put you down, but your heart was greater than theirs (…) Now we run, and you Tina, the first martyr of the new age! A woman overturning years of oppression, and doing it wth such compassion and love! Originality, there is nothing original in this cesspit of fluids and bile. We just effectuate our own effluvia and rain it over and in each other in tender surrender!

What a marvellous joy to realise our own evolutionary place (…) we are the carrion that will feed our gods (…) let them come and devour us, may they rend us limb from limb, and defenestrate us, even while gazing uncaringly from their distant crystal-shard eyes. Oh Crom-Cruach and others of your kind: the walkers in the shadow-shrouded double of our own dimension. Uncaring, unbounded, unrestrained at last from your slumber. Feed upon us miserable worms, we have been bred for this. Those who remain are your dutiful supplicants, who rejoice in our own defenestration.