"The Shaman" EP now on Spotify!

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PRJ Compilation Vol. V - Into The Motorik Void

A Spotify-Exclusive EP.

A Soundcloud-Exclusive Compilation Album.

Adam Sandosa · Demos & Memos 2004-2025.

MU

Flowered tapestry stretched from the house by the dunes to the horizon, lashed by the moonlit glow pouring from his woman’s eyes. Who was she? Who was he? These questions are unnecessary and misguided, these questions are as boring as the evening news and as puffed‑up as daisies in pudding. No one knows who they are, who they will be, who they were. We have only the names of control. When we step outside our own, seemingly our own, yet in truth system‑imposed identity, we’ll understand that inside there is nothing. There is the wind that speaks with the dead and the spirit that speaks with the living, there is one transmission of night and one transmission of day, fair and square – while politicians and priests knead their lies on other, less obvious frequencies, and then those who believed their name was Adam or Eve nod their heads, pray to their little altars, and go to sleep soothed by television babble.

Nothing is as obvious as he is, when all you need is another shot of space, and the flowered tapestry stretches from the house by the dunes to the horizon, repeating its patterns into infinity, toward the rising or setting sun, because by the sea everything is the same – light, vibration, wave, sound. No one counts time, no one looks at a calendar, no one wears watches. His woman sighs. Who was she? Who was he? Who are we even talking about? Are we talking about that sixteen‑year‑old lost in the sand, or the eighteen‑year‑old lost in him? Are we talking about ego or soul, salvation or doubt, finding or losing? How many waves and vibrations are there in a single second of her sigh, and who records the tapes of dawn? How many questions of identity, what is identity, what is the “it” you call “yourself”? Who are you? Why are you reading this? Why do you watch TV and listen to the radio? Why do you buy tapes of your favorite performers? Who are they? The pseudonym “Elvis” carved into a ribcage with a butcher’s knife, the pseudonym “love,” the heart symbol, another teenage song sprayed as graffiti on her fence?

There was a Doors logo there and postcards of Morrison eating a watermelon, I remember it well. There was some Adam and some Eve, there was something in the yard of the town’s only elementary school. There were tastes, glasses, gears. There were bicycles. There was something or someone, or somehow it spoke to the source. And now what is there? The pseudonym of the flowered tapestry stretching to the horizon, the concert on the pier, the lost pair of trousers, or the cracked lens of blue hippie sunglasses. We’re talking about a crime against identity. About the cruelty of names. Wait, who’s “we”?

Yesterday I dreamed that Brian Jones and I were riding the New York subway, sharing songs we never managed to write in everyday life. In dreams everything happens faster, like in London. And London is another dream. Dreams within dreams, repeats the hallway alarm clock, clattering out the first bars of Pink Floyd’s “Time.” But time is not a curse, it is an illusion. You and here everything is an illusion. You and here everything is wind. You and here everything is silence and the storm of morning in lilies. I once wrote songs about lilies, by the sea, in that very house by the dunes, on an old classical guitar with a “Nalepa” sticker. When two 64‑page notebooks filled up, I decided to throw them away. They weighed too much, like identity, the snake skin you must shed.

And so I splashed my way to the source. There were no snakes, no hippies, no lilies, no dunes, no songs – there were crystals of night and Brian Jones whispering in my ear, “let’s add flutes there, a whole mass of flutes.” Maybe we both had a flute phase, maybe we were meant to meet in that dream – and it wasn’t my dream – it was a transmission of day, straight from New York, specifically from the subway. In the subway you will meet yourself, if you discard the Adams and Eves, the ID cards, the numbers, and the random encounters to which you assign meaning.

Wait, who is writing this? Who is reading this? Who is who and what is what, when nothing remains but the wind. If it blows too hard, the dunes will wash into the sea, and the old ancient Mayan concrete will exhale from beneath the sand. Concrete that doesn’t appear in history textbooks, and a history you won’t hear at a seaside bonfire. Who lit the bonfire, why are naked women dancing? My secret name was revealed to me, and his woman is already asleep. Who was she? Who was he? Maybe me, the sixteen‑year‑old from the beach, or maybe some other kid on vacation. Or maybe the punk bassist from the concert across the way. They really played there! Concrete washed into the ocean by a single Black drum, Mu rises from the bottom. Mu is full of songs. Mu is always you and here. Mu is always where the source is – the mirror of wind, Mu, mirror of wind. Mu’s mirror, wind, Mu’s mirror.

"The Desert Shore of Darłowo"

Flying saucers flew into the town from the direction of the port. I didn’t really see them; I only heard a sound like in an old cartoon—piercing, high, and sudden. In my hippie days I often imagined flying saucers while smoking weed and watching Scooby Doo, and the cartoon sometimes showed aliens too. My naïve mind didn’t know any other entertainment back then. In fact, even then I already knew—or rather felt—that there was some kind of holiness in the weed, something beyond entertainment, church, and humanity, but most of my buddies smoked it as an addition to Scooby Doo, which was probably healthier and more human than sacralizing the plant.

The plant, anyway, isn’t the most important thing in my story. There are flying saucers, after all. Them, and the girl.

The girl swears she saw them, and although she had taken LSD once, on the day the saucers appeared she was completely and undeniably clean. She wasn’t prone to fantasizing, though it was precisely her incredible imagination that magnetized my heart to her refrigerator. We called her Moog “the fridge.” She was the only owner of a Moog in the entire seaside area. I urged her many times to record an album, but she claimed that any medium kills the eternal reverb of electronics.

She also smoked enormous amounts of weed, and I met her at a Moskwa concert, when—completely drunk—she collapsed onto my lap and slurred, “What’s your name?” Adam, I replied. Ewa, the stranger introduced herself, though of course her real name was something else entirely—Agata.

I don’t remember the concert very well, but years later I recall with some amusement the rumor that I jammed with the legendary Moskwa that day. Possibly, though Agata doesn’t remember it either. I’d have to ask Malejonek, but he probably doesn’t talk to anarchists anymore. He played a great concert in Darłowo with some acoustic project, and I think he even left me an autograph.

But I moved so many times that even my Wah Wah has vanished without a trace, let alone autographs on scraps of paper or equally fleeting, often‑borrowed records. Maybe Agata is right about her Moog and the reverb of electronics. Maybe some elusive things are better left in the realm of elusiveness, like the white butterflies released in Hyde Park in memory of the elusive Brian Jones.

Some things are, or become, legend, and time works like the sea, polishing boulders into sand. With a bit of luck, a small pebble will remain after us, taken by a child from the beach to a big city, or sand where the desert meets the ocean.

As Nico sang, we’ll meet on the desert shore. She’s already there, waiting with a million stories to tell, accompanied by her harmonium—just as Agata has her Moog.

Agata is still alive, and she has just seen the saucers. She says they weren’t particularly spectacular, and she’s not sure, but it seems to her they landed on the eastern part of the beach, and that maybe it would be worth checking.

So I dressed as fast as I could—meaning I threw a coat over my pajamas—and ran past the dunes. It wasn’t far at all. I noticed a greenish‑gold light behind the farthest dune and the last pine. Something serious was definitely happening here; the light trembled in the sea breeze, and the weather itself felt slightly unreal for the middle of winter on the Baltic coast.

And finally, indeed, I see those damn ships. Or rather—judging by their size—exploration capsules. They emanate light, as if from some extraterrestrial radiation source. I walk closer, and I wake up.

I see the soothing greenish lights of the Moog, and Agata is playing and singing, “Hare, Gandzia, Hare.” My first song. I thought it was ephemeral and had already dispersed into the Universe somewhere between the realm of dreams, nightmares, and hopes. It didn’t have much text, but it had a lot of space for an intergalactic synthesizer solo.

I open the local newspaper; I don’t see any strange news. But I remember the saucers, so I ask Agata about them, and she replies with stoic calm that a beautiful Nordic blonde brought her that melody.

Right, I mutter—too much LSD. I, on the other hand, must have eaten too much canned meat, my only meal during long winter days by the beach. What kind of anarchist am I if I eat meat? Meat is substance, and dreams, hopes, and nightmares wait just behind the illusory screen of reality until we decide to reach for them.

I wish I remembered the lyrics—I’d join Agata, and she would once again become the nameless Ewa I met at the Moskwa concert. Time would stand still, or rewind to my “year zero,” and Scooby Doo would solve the mystery of the flying saucers in Darłówko.

But utopias don’t exist, because their natural consequence is dystopia, so the cartoon character will never investigate what lies hidden in that beach. And there are billions of stories of billions of years there, from which I choose one pebble and keep polishing it. One day it will become Neptune’s ring.

But that’s a distant planet, and the Nordic visitor didn’t leave instructions for the ship. Still, I believe that with her web of sound, Ewa and Agata will find the right connections and activate the Moog as the ship’s control panel.

The ship is buried a bit further east, the capsules still wait on their trembling note of light, and we have all the time in the Universe.

So let’s sing cheerfully by the hippie bonfire: “Hare Gandzia, mmm, Hare Gandzia Hare.”

Devil’s Vineyards (2004).

A new disease will come in clouds of marijuana, fumes of opium, absinthe, and whores. A new disease will come as rock’n’roll pollution. A new disease will chew your bodies, the bodies of your mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, friends and enemies. It will send your sons to hell through the heavenly gates of your degenerate, debauched daughters. It will impale your friends and seat your enemies on thrones, first crowned with thorns. Your mothers and fathers will burn on pyres – the first raped, the second with slit throats.

The disease will come UNNOTICED. It will wear the mask of circus, theater, concert, innocent joyful Song, virginal spectacle, television show, prize contest. It will be your Joyful Reaper with a Holy Song upon Lustful Lips.

Maximum darkness lurks in the devil’s vineyards.

Now is the time of knowing. The time of rotten fruit. The time of a feast for people thirsty for mortal nectar.

The Hydra of Worlds turned its eyes toward desolate cliffs, toward the dead sea, and toward the sun leaning lazily westward, slowly dying. A fraction of a second later it was already TOO LATE. Sudden attack. Screams. Feast. Tomorrow the Altars of Dawn are ours!!!

And the world was seized by vulgar death in all its manifestations.

“The Golden Void” (2005).

I looked at her, and there were wings resembling the moon caught in a fisherman’s net and a neon on a shadowed boulevard, wings blacker than night, sweeter than honey – at once brighter than the sun and bitter to infinity – Wings that contained everything beautiful and immeasurable.

There were wings like mirrors gazing into each other and winking knowingly, amused. There was a cemetery bathed in emerald glow, and there was a garden where black orchids bloom beneath the full summer sun, while children squander time.

And there were eyes, millions of eyes illuminating her entire body. Iron butterflies perched upon her eyelids, which under the weight of solid metal closed again and again. The butterflies screamed.

The golden void turned, revealing its magical-garden splendor and black holes strung upon whips of purple nebulae, marked by the breath of volcanoes and the mad agony of desert worlds.

We became an arrow released by the trembling hand of dawn, which had stolen from the darkness the last cemetery diamond, and now, drawing its bow for the first time, shot a luminous arrow straight into the vagina of night, so that among the waves of the final illuminated orgasm it might return to its intimate tomb.

The golden void winked invitingly, one of countless stars in the radiant winter sky.

Be anything that no one is. (2005/2006).

Wind in the antennas. Silent, undefined, doubtful.

It carries more meaning than all possible media. It carries the primal content. It carries the core of progress. It carries culture. It carries conquests. It carries the dirty blood of conquerors, it carries innocence and whoredom. Being silence, it simultaneously disturbs it with the wavering of antennas, with the temptation of the sky, devouring every new sun, covering it with pallor. I struggle to catch breath. Wind in the antennas. Wind in the antennas... Carry our verses above the January sky. Carry silence, stagnation, resignation. Carry the shadow of mere defeat, a shadow that terrifies when seen from the Center. Harakiri of millions of ghosts, guts flooding the streets, guts flooding the roofs, guts flooding the sky, guts...

The shadow provokes you into uncontrolled acts – sudden death, spontaneous orgasms, unexpected screams of awakening, barely audible cuts with a razor, brutal rapes, leaps from bridges full of splendid lights, riding elevators without purpose, running straight under passing cars, slaughtering the whole fucking family, brushing against the shadow of risk with a sudden swerve into the opposite lane, shooting into the canal like into the very center of the periphery, drinking absinthe with two whores, vomiting on expensive carpet ornaments, shitting on costly antique armchairs, fucking a dog under the bridge, tearing the skin from your own face with a blissful smile, pissing on your father’s corpse, devouring your underage lover piece by piece and vomiting again on the carpets. Wind in the antennas tempts the ghosts obedient to it.

Ghosts love everything they fear. Ghosts have nothing. Wind in the antennas has seized everything that was ever important. Now Fear makes them free.

Within the bounds of fear and in the shackles of antenna wind – yet free. Though electric wind sometimes shakes the rotting flesh wrapped around spectral bones. Freedom then shakes the ulcerated brain. And cruelty finally pierces through the mask of whorish, unbearable docility. Greatness above all.

Somewhere far away, yellow-violet, pale flashes illuminate the sky. NEW YEAR on the peripheries rips open the entrails of the day. The vagabond laughed. He walked further west, returning to time.

The day whispers: Wake me at last, you fucking bastard, inject life into me, crush the tomb walls, declare war on the miserable conspirators, erase all traces, wake me at last you damned son of a bitch! Wake me FUCKING wake me, don’t answer calls, don’t move from bed, sleep so I can suspend myself in your holy whorish space, digest me, turn me inside out, smash all windows, break down all doors wake me you whore, wake me! Turn off alarms, smash cars, cut the POWER, steal all energy from the fucking vampires. Wake me or rot and I’ll rot with you.

Symphonies of mistakes respond with the steady beating of drums. Other instruments fall silent. Thus whispers the day...

The wild rhythm of drums shook the pulsing heart of the jungle, burst apart the wet air and made it tremble, moaning with pleasure. The sound of drums swelled, reaching incessantly toward orgiastic crescendo with admirable regularity. Soon the deep bass shook the foundations of the jungle and the greenery, until now seemingly eternal, began to collapse, withdrawing its moist tentacles, revealing the City.

through eons of devastation path after path the motionless sea keeps watch tribes of the night unite around the monumental bones of an ancient sea beast jazz of lanterns, rain of drums ancient paths turned into highways toward temples of gaslight and empty windows of sleeping estates

"Peripheries" (2005/2006).

Two days from here, three kilometers closer.

For people from the center, forced to drive through, they are a land of dangerous shadows of their comfortable world. A deformed, repulsive image, a shattered mirror of their dreams, successes, and euphoria. A wild wasteland full of half-humans wandering aimlessly all day. Hunched, dressed in rags, they gaze at the distant towers of the City with longing eyes. This is the image of passersby. The image of control. The image from beyond the perfect boundary.

And we here breathe corpse-like, scentless air under cold stars, absorbing every metallic sound, every echo of mortal coughing, every moan, scream, and horn. Passing ghosts, pitiful shadows suspended in white streaks on the lanes to the right, red ones to the left, and between them the miserable green hung in concrete.

Ghosts shoot into the peripheries horde after horde. They penetrate the lecherous darkness and the subcutaneous hatred flowing somewhere beneath the asphalt. Sometimes you see their faces when they slow down. Cruel empty faces filled with a perverse smile. Festering boils, cancerous growth, vile whoring insect, carrion jolted by current. Current drives their carrion-machines. Current flows in rotting veins, current passes through the shapeless mass of the organic pump. Electroshocks awaken decaying flesh to life. Ghosts do not exist.

And we look at the towers of the City of Ghosts waiting for them to fall, for pride to be punished, for the happiest day of their existence to arrive, though they will despair, crawl, and die. We wait for the ghosts to return beyond the boundary of sleep. That moment will come soon.

...I vomit, cough, die in splendid drinks, motionless eyelids, Truly jazz You think: fascinations Fireworks I want and she came and began to unpredictably curse FROM angels. You choked splendor _ bourbon of scream tchaikovsky cancerous close-ups jazz rain I AM Antennas late carrion, fork of eyelids Every corner of carnivals dancers thin wallets in starfish bottles too little blood not bed not butterflies our you said trembled morning splendor body nights breeze only peripheries not smoke moments days I have shadow fading man-number with a glass of 77 we turned into illuminated worlds. I have tchaikovsky Antennas tremble 4 a.m., too late, incessant Dawn of words Gray fog I sit in a plate, spin it completely I haven’t drunk since yesterday I have countless combinations want also to recognize cinema Day whispers so quiet unnecessary and incessantly you sighed Sensually into intimate excess I haven’t drunk since yesterday I have combinations I have trumpets Something sometimes somewhere I AM cigarette coffee lips corpse fright, ancient paths resounded turned into highways resembling the moon blinking at each other serpentines of days and such days and still others slowly bedding of a sea beast drunken demon half-burned wedged between centuries for centuries I haven’t slept for centuries seas of larvae when they speak of scentless air I still have a bed of tchaikovsky Where roofs end, darkness begins retreating from her cigarette Cool breeze with flame, with snow Dance Sing Bargain for your own ass at the Market of Freaks...

And so the verses of the peripheries flow through the dead January sky proclaiming to all the gray silent dawn. Above the city, beneath the city, and beyond it – gray silent dawn. Somewhere on the tracks a dog whines...

"December 9 (as I remember it)" (2005/2006).

So we started drinking with Maciej in a small dive somewhere near the old market, beer beer beer until I ran out of money. Cigarettes had already run out earlier, which wasn’t a problem—Maciej immediately bought some at the bar, Pall Mall, probably the strong ones. So we smoked, and I finished what was at least for now my last beer, in a pitiful and sad mood, even though earlier we’d been talking about how I have to become a legend, how I’ve got the predispositions, how it’s all going great. We also talked about my new love, who seems less selfish, more demanding, definitely not a one-night thing but rather for life, and maybe for the first time I’m right. So I raised a toast to Her, and thought then that I could use some money, so I wanted to borrow it from someone. Marta was in town, and I thought she’d surely be kind and understanding as always, and lend me a few coins so I could survive the night at least until four, as is my habit. My Lady was probably already asleep. Returning to Her all the time until morning, and then dreaming that strange dream about Her a few years later, how she’d change and what we’d be doing on the night bus going to the pub—I’d get off at the right stop, distracted by a friend I hadn’t seen in ages, wanting to introduce Her, but She wouldn’t be there anymore, She’d stayed on the bus and gone somewhere else. And later She’d explain to me why She did it, that She loved me very much, but they were opening that new pub a little further on and She had to go, and all of this She’d do over the phone—and if that really happens, let me be damned. So thinking about what will or won’t be, I felt the full force of a powerful crescendo of choices I have to make, since my life began 20 years ago and so far it’s hard to call it a life. Yes, sometimes I’m happy, sometimes too much, sometimes I run half-naked in the snow of the old market and a taxi driver shouts “Looks like summer’s back!” and nobody understands, though some laugh and others just stare. More often I feel like a 40-year-old, my soul is old and ruined, and I don’t know what will happen when another 20 years pass. I want a peaceful life beside a beloved person, so I can love her, write, listen to jazz, take long walks, and all the rest of those awful clichés that nonetheless make a person happy longer than being drunk or high or both together with something extra for an encore. Anyway, I had no intention of betraying that unspoken love, not yet unfolded, and I decided not to dance. I also decided to start a week of peace, drink green tea, listen to Gong Live Etc., and not leave the house. Sit there completely alone, since She won’t come. Lock myself in my prison of habits—new ones, but quite similar to the old, since both are escapes from responsibility and decision-making, and above all escapes from everything that overwhelms me and makes up the prose of my pitiful drinking. And above all, not to dance in a billowing white shirt with some random chick. And so it was. Maciej stayed at the table with his beer, I threw on my coat, left my scarf, and went out to the square where I’d arranged to meet Marta. She was with her cousin, we chatted a bit, “what’s up with you,” the usual crap, I got the money and went back to the pub. We probably ordered another beer and started talking about the film we want to make. A film without a script, an open film, a film about the two of us, since the rest considered their lives too uninteresting to make a film about, and some couldn’t imagine filming without a script, probably because they don’t know who Godard is. The discussion about film and with film took up some precious evening time, and it got late, so we decided to get up, buy some decent wine at the night shop, and go to the pub where Marta and her cousin were sitting—basically just to borrow a corkscrew and open the wine—and only for some fucked-up kid to throw Maciej against a crate marked “Warning, high voltage,” while his brother fed me some pathetic bullshit about how they’re from Holland, and Maciej spoke English so he’s a sucker because he’s Polish and shouldn’t do that again. They must have been drinking harder than us, because I didn’t understand a single word of their crap. Anyway, after these marginal adventures on the way, we opened the wine inside, I started drinking, and we decided to go to the citadel—which didn’t happen, because on the way we thought of walking to the dorm to make sandwiches, and I wanted to sleep. But when we got there, through wonderful shortcuts across mud, bushes, fields, trees, the stadium, and a huge street not busy at that hour, and then another one, it turned out that fucking indifference reigns everywhere, even where it shouldn’t, and the pitiful people at the reception desk probably do nothing else in life but stare at faces, because they remembered I don’t live there and wouldn’t let me in. And honestly, judging by my appearance, I wouldn’t have let myself in either. I remembered Ziggy in another dorm a few steps away, and there a gray-haired angel with indescribable calm said, “410, right? Just please, no noise, and only for an hour.” And we talked with Ziggy about the Stones concert, about our generation, about youth, about the cultural hole in our fucking city that no one can fill, and it so happens we’re young and great and only here once in this world, and instead of doing something we sit here drinking—I red, Maciej and Ziggy white wine—and then Ziggy treated us to sandwiches, and we talked about that nonsense with breaks for cigarettes in the corridor, which we put out in a jar filled with water and the butts of previous speakers. And nothing really came of that conversation except the brilliant thesis that Maciej would drop by his place and make sandwiches, I’d wait, and we’d head back to the city, catch the night bus, and then find a pub open at 4 a.m. willing to take in two alcohol-thirsty guys—which in Poznań is practically impossible, since almost all the night dancers politely go home, lacking stamina, topics, money, and everything else, so they go to sleep. And honestly, I don’t blame them—if I didn’t have money, I’d have been asleep long ago instead of riding a rickety night bus to the center, this time even with some cheerful, lively people inside, drunk but funny, not pitiful as usual. We got off, sang something, and went looking for a pub, but didn’t find one, which was predictable—except two crazy girls found us, clearly looking for suckers to buy them drinks. One professionally scanned my clothes for signs of how expensive they were, and asked me what I do. I said I play jazz. She said she doesn’t understand jazz, which I expected, because she was really uninteresting and ugly to the point of pain in that glaring light, but very self-confident. And I thought, man, that’s what you’re missing—look at her, look at yourself, and tell yourself what the fuck you’re doing here. But Maciej went downstairs with the other one to check out the party, because we finally found a pub—which didn’t change the fact that the fucking entry fee was 15 złoty, and I was still sober enough to tell the girls, “Oh no, no way. It’ll be harder for you to find two suckers to pay for your dancing than for us to find two beautiful—beautiful, I repeat—girls at this hour. So goodnight, have fun, and same to you.” And we went into another pub, just the two of us again, and I felt good, and thought, man, that’s progress. In the past you’d have used every trick to mess around with one of those hustlers, but now no, oh no, you remember your promises—may it stay that way. And in the pub, which seemed very exclusive, though I’d been there once with a certain blonde dressed in white from head to toe, which doesn’t matter now, artificial people indulged in a bit of artificial spleen with artificial music, but the beer, though expensive, was quite good, and those cigarettes in the golden pack I’d never seen before, called Benson & Hedges—and in the morning, the tenth, around two p.m., came the reflection tied to them. Then just tram line 2 and home, each to his own, of course, though I stopped by the cemetery on the way, as morning entertainment before going to sleep. Then bed, and again a dream of Her—this time I don’t remember what about or who else, I have them every day, maybe because I go to sleep and wake up with Her name on my lips. And now I sit and finish writing this pitiful fragment about a wonderful day, and wish you pleasant reading—and if you haven’t yet, then fuck you all, because between these lines is life. And I love my Little Lady.

"Altars of Dawn" (2002/09/20).

Altars of Dawn The sun rises, stars remain, they no longer set. Eternal evening, eternal dawn, divided by a bloody knife. Destiny serves me, I command dreams, I strike the bell, its hollow sound echoes between us. Rest upon the altar of dawn, scratch out your eyes, tear out your heart, look below, depart as a new man. Wounds open, the table appears. Time of supper, eternal hunger, body and blood, acid brothers. Take, share, worship. A great orgy on the altar, the starry cleric sleeps.

The new day rises, everything has changed. The universe opens its gates, minds open, all eyes awaken. Memories not worth stirring. Neon light, cold streets, lonely mankind screams in the chambers of psychologists. Never again, never. Man is not an object, man has soul and body. Let the wind lift me, I do not wish to see the Earth as it was before it began to change. Empty chairs, faceless estates, a world without feeling, without beauty, without love or dreams.

Rose of Hell A silver spoon measures time, a short fuse burns, blood in your eyes, steel in your veins. You chose, now pay. Pleasure chases pain, the hundredth day, the great high, you feel like a king. In the syringe blooms a red young flower, ripening to embrace your world. Your woman laughs, she wants to try, she undresses, caresses, but you must say no. Do not let her take what remains. She took your mind, your body. Dawn rises in empty eyes, the dead sun shines down, everything enrages you.

Martyr You sit close, gaze into my face. I laugh satanically, you claim you know me, but you do not know what I do at night, the spectral glow that shrouds graveyards. I knock upon their gates. Time for the orgy of eternal sighs, the bloody orgasm sleeps, it will awaken, ripen, stand at your door. It will slip into every point of flesh, penetrate the abyss, tear you apart in frenzy, hear the sweet moan. You die of rapture, bells sound hollow. I depart sated, blood releases me. Dead rats on your bed, you scream “No!” Bound, you have no chance, chains clank. I never depart, executor of torments.

Hermit Dusk rapes the day, the sun has set, my eyes gleam like eternal seas. Bathed in young stars, I embrace you, your eyes sparkle though reason whispers no. The angel of death awakens, silence calls us. Our world more splendid than the hermitage of the masses. She is my sun, I her shadow, I open every door. Together we change reality, we rise, levitation of two souls, two bodies. Where dawn thunders, darkness endures.

In my hermitage among forests, I reflect on the future shrouded in uncertainty. I strive to sweep it away, to glimpse the world a thousand years hence. As it is, or as it will change. I gaze into starry roads, wide gates I wish to open, break the bond of time, hear voices, feel touch, create the mirror of life. I wish to create your dreams.

I rest upon the altars of dawn, unfurl wings, fly high where none has been, break the sacred loops of time, avoid all roads, build my own, revive dreams.

Temple Four walls, rows of benches, dead faces, empty gaze. Silence, heavy steps. Blood and urine mix, the whore cries “Fuck!” Sick world, holy world, believe or die. On your knees, wretched dog, join us, faithless, be saved. We are many, we are right, paltry arguments, biblical nonsense, monuments. You believe, fool, open your eyes. Do you not see where you live, in a catalogue of perversions. Power and money rule, we’ll leave you alone, just don’t look at our hands.

Four walls, asylum of lies, spiral of falsehood runs downward, disorienting you. Truth and lie dissolve, you follow society, you waste away. On your knees, wretched dog, join us, faithless, be saved. We are many, we are right, paltry arguments, biblical nonsense, monuments.

From the Realms of the Underdeath Born, you search for light, warmth and peace. Frightened of night, you cry when the sun does not glow. In time you learn to live in the shadow of the sun. Pandemonium ahead, you wonder if it is time. Pray to fire, wonder why, ask, but your time is over. Follow me, you will see, senseless mind out of order. Wake up your mind. Wake up your mind. Wake up.