if nothing is free from the realm of the contingent
God is dead and i must become him
if man is a long heavy sigh trapped in being and time
i will tear the muscles in my forearm in order to carry him
out of the deadened reddened sea and into Agartha
king of all worlds, a gleaming sword in my hand
amid the glory of conquest, a gentle tapping at my conscience
interrupted by ash trickling down on my head
i had reached the center of centers, but it was veneer and facade
bestowed with the consolation crown of king Nihilismus
an acephalous and bloody wretched bunch we may be
gurgling the filth of the aforementioned deadened reddened sea
if God is dead we must revive him
heaven knows we won't survive him
oh how we miss you oh blessed fylfot
i sense your absence in my soul
and i see Christ bloodied and bleeding
the yoke is loosened and dole
and i know why she cries
and i know why
because it's midnight
there's nothing left on the inside
there's a stigmata on my tongue
all our cities are sprawling and falling
mark another tally, o indelible one
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