Installment #2 from the one the only Chris Baldwin
Poems for People Who Like Satan!
Shemhamforash
Bestow upon us o terrible lord
the pleasures of the flesh!
Bless this chalice I raise to you.
Turn its urine to riches.
Let my genitals leak with gold.
For in our feeble humility,
we sacrifice our dignity for wealth!
Let this gong be a plate to feast
upon your potent black breads.
That arm us with strength and agility,
to wage war with our enemies in white.
To our Lord of Darkness,
to all his demons and demigods,
we extend our appreciation.
We have much to show for it.
We provide you much in offering.
Open knees, spread vaginas.
Wafers dipped in our sperm.
All for your sustenance.
We pledge without hesitation,
to all of your gifts.
The euphoria of orgasm.
The rush of homicide.
The rewards in return
of blasphemous action.
The body pile grows.
Its stench: the metaphor for our victory.
Shemhamforash!
Kawwals Call to the Infernal Lord
Ensemble assembled.
Sent to earth from the deep.
To track the tracks of evil
with musical accompaniment.
Slithering, striking.
Coiled cobra bows
lash to strings,
slide and slice necks.
Clarinets clearly
blow with foulness.
Scales for reptile scales.
Dips for demon dancing.
Rhythmic repetition,
like burning leaves.
That burn their trees
after lulling them into gnosis.
The dark lord sustained,
impersonated by the rain.
The dissonant notes drizzling
with stripping acid.
He has heard his song.
Has answered its call.
Has come to free us.
To bring us back with him.
Before he blows his trumpet
that blows the world of God away.
Sacrificial Rites
The infant lays face-up.
Kicking and flailing rapidly.
Meaninglessly groaning about.
It watches as slowly creeping,
a swarm of corruptive black
protrudes from the ceiling.
Its face sours slightly,
as the smoke invades,
blurring its vision.
The alter dims into red light.
The baby disappears,
swallowed up by the locusts.
No one dares to speak.
No one turns their head,
or closes their eyes.
No one bares any question,
on why and how
the specimen had vanished,
as the school of flies subside.
*
Blow out the torches.
Dip your head into water.
Kneel before the door.
Wall it shut when you leave.
It isn’t too well known,
that this body be enough
meat and blood to quench.
To settle the monster’s impatience.
Altar of Gentile Offering
O beautiful wife of mine,
how desirable you are,
with head and limbs stretched.
Your flesh under strobe.
Your extremities nailed
vigorously to the star gate.
Spread like an eagle.
Sprawled like a defeated witch.
Such gift and treasure you are.
The savor of the great furor.
The servant to the deadly serpent.
Like a corpse left in the forest
for the starving wolf to feast.
Open that pretty mouth of yours,
so I can drive a nail through it
to silence your objections.
But to hold it agape,
unmasked for the phallus of Satan.
Open that slender chest of yours.
Give this sword its entrance.
To pour steel in your chalice of organs.
To unlock the portal to Hell,
so his shadow may rise from your body.
He has come for man.
To answer his imprudence.
To waste his world of frailty.
To punish the saints with sin.
To reward my sin with sainthood.
To take me with him,
into the torching flames.
To burn immortal and immovable.
He only requires,
your fluids for fuel,
your body for food,
your life to sustain him.
Your powers of bitchery
to trick them into temptation.
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