Metal

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 13:17:07 GMT

That's our new logotype...

The band itself:

In action:

Devas

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 07:22:16 GMT

This is a poem of the two angels who have razed the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah and went to hell, deciding not to tolerate the childish tyranny anymore. Their deeds were completely distorted and twisted in the book of lies.

Angels And Towns (Sodom And Gomorrah)

He grazes in revulsion his besmirched wings, and dolor tints his iris -
And doubts of queries race, luring him forth with their everlasting fires -
Tints to azure hues, like daunted blemishes of sarcasm on lily-white red.
Defunct, this serried folk shall serve humanity forevermore as dread.

The constant frissions of the sifters have severed meat from wicked blood,
The self-conceit has quaffed souls, like vampires sinking teeth into a human heart.
His Father sows and reaps, and breathes in the sacrificial smell,
And few discern a puerile reaper in his dull and straddling stand...

And scars form decors on his back as he descends into the sultry hircine depth -
His acts retold and smeared in lies, inducing no less fear than unfair wrath.
Holding his head up high, puissant, walking away with might and main -
No one shall know of mystic wyrd that followed the polemic angels twain.

10.07.09

An Obtuse Mixture

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 04:42:46 GMT

A Horror Story by Rod, Alex, and MyWorldIsShe
...written in 15 minutes on the IRC.

The boat sailed amid an ocean where darkness painted the water black, the stars added sequins to distant waves, and silence was like an endless song. Mark stood on the bow. The insomnia monster got him when he was in his quarters, and he hadn't been able to relax ever since. He glanced at his watch and realized it was three in the morning. He smothered a yawn and thought about going back to bed, but he knew trying to get some sleep would be like trying to find a piece of land in that isolated Atlantic spot.
The crew, still inebriant from the bacchanalian revelry and obeisances to the chief which were occuring a day ago, was sifting through the doors ajar to the sultry poop deck of the vessel that was not subject to any major gusts of wind. In wonderment did Mark heed his attention to these scullions - as much as he had deference to the captain, he couldn't share the deck without an opprobrious frission, much more daunty and fastidious every time he descried these vermins sprawling all over the ship.

Then Brian heard it.

It broke the silence, but not abruptly, for it was the sound of a sweet voice, as if a bird was floating somewhere in the ocean, yet it wasn't a bird, for the mellifluous voice had said his name.
"Mark.."
There, in the distance, there was a face, accompanied by long dark hair that shone under the silver moonlight.
She was beautiful, but what was she doing in the middle of the Atlantic ocean? He looked once again at her: her hair was wet and black, but she was white. "It's probably hair dye" - thought he.
She had voluptuous breasts; it was easy to notice once her torso came out of the water. She stared at him, with her big round eyes. Then she grinned, as if she was about to do some mischief.
And when she submerged, Mark saw the rest of her body. She had no legs but a tail. A fish tail. She was a siren. So he took a fishing rod and a placed a teddy bear with a postcard upon the hook and cast it into the waters. He smiled and waited for the siren to take the bait. His penis was waking up, already pressing against the fabric of his white pants. This was his chance to have sex with a siren. Back in high school, his brother Ralph had been the school's playboy, always bragging about how many cheerleaders he had had sex with, but Mark had screwed a siren. What were the odds of that? Her tail flipped on and on, manifesting the amalgamation of the platonic and astral climax. But she didn't surface, making him linger his time.. With his zipper half-open, with his eyes bulging out trying to catch a glimpse of a single scale. He was there, out in the dark, trying to catch his breath, yet moan silently with all the fibres of his soul as he caught sight of a fish tail. Alas, it was a mere shark.. And the shark had the teddy bear with the poscard in its mouth, and it was moving away from the boat, and it tugged Mark overboard.
Mark felt the cold water touching his skin. It was like being stabbed a thousand times with a thousand knifes.
"Help," he screamed, but he knew no one would listen. Everyone was either asleep or partying. The shark turned around and moved toward him. The only chance of getting saved there was reading the postcard out loud. But he had to get it out of the teddy stuck in betwixt the ominous teeth of the fish. "At least I'll die with a boner", he bethought of his final erection. But still, reading the postcard out loud to the shark and marrying it would help him live.. His sight wasn't adapted to the underwater reading but he was lucky enough to evade the adroit assailments of the shark and his hard member managed to take the postcard out of the shark's grasp of the maw.
And he held it until...
He saw these eyes from afar, from her, she was gazing at him, and although the water gave no allowance for the shedding tears, he could swear he saw the drop rilling from her mermaid eyes..
"You slut!" - she said, and all he heard was "GURGLE! Gurgle!".
And by letting the card slip out of his hand he did all but dodged the attack of the shark..

Was it the end? No...

In her deep sorrow for the mortal, she swam ferociously towards the mortally wounded man and the crimson waters surrounding him. She hoped that once she got there she could use the healing powers of the sea to sustain his life. He had been eaten from the waist down. She promptly arrived and fended off the shark with the power of one whip of her tail, but she could use her powers to turn him into a merman. She summoned the powers of Neptune, the blood began returning to his body from the sea. In a deep regret for the harsh words he angerly threw her way and he looked at her, mystified as she swam up and slapped him.
"Eat shit, jerk!" she screamed at him/
She then swam off, as the shark circled around and began its attack once again.

The End

A Filled Gap

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 17:37:33 GMT

A couple of circumstances has driven me off a place where people share ideas and I posted the following message in defence of paedophobia:

"The provenance of the ill will towards human infants, in my case, is unadulterated since my initial reminiscences (the ones that has occurred more than twenty-seven years ago) - descrying a person of the same age, I would remain indignant at the intense and impolite stare directed at me; withal the plethora of the possible dialogues would always turn into soliloquies, be it I endeavor to reason with the aforementioned human cub futilely (most of them just lacked common sense). The only kind I would stand beside, not abasing my senses, is the one upbrought by the laws of 'young adults', which were prevalent four or three threescore years ago. The non-violent resolution spurns all common, coetaneous and benighted nurturing and employs that 'adult' training of the character of progenies from their coming to life until they reach the legal age in their area.
Having said this, the predilection for bellicose solutions in the given environment may seem less obtuse. Thank you."

On the other note, the debut record is almost finished and we're working hard on getting interviews and reviews for the band...

Tue, 03 Mar 2009 17:43:00 GMT

www.mariosmetalmania.com/interviews.html#ArcticFlame

Above is an interview with Arctic Flame (US Power Metal).

Lost Hopes

Oh, moon, with beauty glorified throughout the ages of the strains,
Your presence indelibly etched the ones who walk under your mass,
Oh, teal seas with high tides, unbridled in their flow,
Will you all witness my last throes that soon shall cease and go?

My kind shall crawl into the tomb and breath by breath, I'll pass away,
With somber fortitude I'll tame the wart of life, the light of grey.
This lecherous drear gift that keeps on retieratively teasing,
This sickly bewitchment shall be broken, for it is now my very quisling.

In contrite sang-froid my resolute hand reaches out for a gun,
All, please condone me... And in one motion swift, I am gone...
The single thunder has become a demarkation of the rest,
And banished, life no longer moves my chest.

The glutted night ascends from the silent, tranquil room,
The quenched waters ebb without a single sign of gloom,
Slight breeze stirs the inkstand-pressed sheet of the last muse,
My eyes no longer see the wane; the world had naught to lose.

03.03.09

.

****

Lo and behold! In listless slough my useless soul has slept,
But thou has shed the light of Lucifer whose endless knowledge is adept,
Unbirdling forthwith everlasting hopes and ardency of love,
May Ashtoreth witness the floridness that thee continually engraft.

Mine heartbeat races when thine countenance is nigh,
It's a lucid perfection and I drown in this mire,
Lachrymose Luna, and the watery moon,
The weeping crescent - always at full.

The runes with the futhark art cast and their gist is clear -
Thou art adorable, my mistress and queen,
Thou art higher than God; or all gods, if thou please.
Prithee, I'm confident - my lief feeling shall never surcease.

Reneging On Life

The doom I have sought lingers no more,
The meaningless future faces no wonders at all,
The absence of valiance looms visions forlorn.
Mendacious hopes - I reject your foul call.

Solemnity stays, as I pine away slowly,
Adverse ennui, protracts a dour folly,
Conferring no option but to cull out lunacy -
Solve the riddle of death, disentangling its intricacy

Ephemera

Each transient season casts a trough of my prowess,
Each autumn cause fitful thoughts of the past days,
I'm faltered by it, it's dulling my senses,
And days last eternity, the woe that I witness,

I have gone through the changes, yet the passion remains,
It controls my emotions, holding their reins,
Smothered with infinite, strangling by mind,
I wade through the darkness, thoughtful and blind.

Internecine Promiscuity

Noxious reek contorts the olfactory sense,
Blood osculating the palate is dense.
The duo of anguished clamours stiffening the basement
Is imbued with salacious laughter never in abatement.

Abhorrent human cubs are dismembered in the attic -
Leading them to my apartment was an ingenuous trick.
Withering their life, escapes their rendered bodies,
Recalcintrant, my deflowered gamin grovels.

Inveigled, those hapless victims are quaintly writhing,
Punched in their frames, tearing their clothing.

They're suppine, sprawling on children bones, bleeding,
Still alive, with a hope, soliciting me for freedom,
A flash of lewd, vicious love, inundating my mind,
I commence my indulgence with them from behind.

Flesh, still resilient, grafting with me,
Engraving my perception with its fatal finesse lee,
The fitful paroxysms climaxing the feast -
Coming to the church, they thought I was just a priest.

Gingerly, I inter one by one the remains.
I am stalked by their night reminiscence,
Even the night cannot blur the amatory regret
Of burying the elder of the two of these dead.

"Because I will publish the name of the Lord:
Ascribe ye greatness unto our God." (Deuteronomy 32:3)
Passing Jesus' word onto our life,
I realize I was in love.

An Interview And A Poem

Fri, 26 Sep 2008 06:51:02 GMT

There are times when your soul is resounding with dour thoughts, grim as the ebon-lit garden of Eden when the Rightful God takes the place of Jehovah, and your mind demands something... And you know you can't resist it.. Their music will fill you with highened faculties and you'll realize how sienna and pallid the souls of the god-loving persons are, filling you with positive vaingloriousness, rendering you aware that you are not the one of the slaves. Here's an interview from Mario's Metal Mania with the occult doom metal band from the US, Hour of 13, which lets you see that that I have described above:

www.mariosmetalmania.com/interviews.html#Hour%20of%2013

And there's always something for you, my reader, to let your thoughts of the present be cast aside... A poem of forgetfulness and forgiveness.

The Surrender

When I perpend 'pon the quiet shore of Lethe,
With intentness of imminent doom met with gree,
The cruces of strains are yet unforgotten,
Cerebrations of will are still safe and unbroken.

Malodorous waters are ladled with lust,
Lending themselves to purloined trust,
Eris' naiad swirls away with that spoil,
Now, all of my thoughts disappear and foil.

Altercations of infamy mean naught in this world,
Careless felicities are lost and forgot...
Inebriated, menial, at the gates on my knees,
I implore to get in, oh, omnific Hades.

09.26.08

Just One Of My Unfinished Stories

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 03:31:29 GMT

CHAPTER 1
******************

Conceptions, gravely wilting inside my tenebrific mind, lacking sagacity and intricacy, cannot find its natural exit, while my mind is temerariously striving to get those inevitable ideas rendered verbatim. Last night I was in oblivion again. What kind of exuberating obsession can take over, anastomose with myself and leave me awaken in the middle of a nocturnal somnambulistic realization, all in spuming amnesia, discerning the traces of my perturbing recent activity? I ought to devise something to separate pure figment from reality, leaving myself intact while this somnolent curse is laying its excessively robust grip on my brain only to release me amidst the night and leave me exhausted. That abhorrent sense appears to be almost tangible, as if thousand buds of pernicious asphodel were digesting and violating my flesh, full of nutritious veins, thinly covered with conditionally protective layer of shivering, oily skin.
"The camera," - I mumbled - "a bloody camera is what I need" - and my mind has been set, and the patience, that I seemed to be accumulating in all kind of hoards, in all the subtle windings of my character, already came to a cessation. Full of eagerness and anticipation, I, despite the fragility, weighing heavily on my legs and shoulders, gathered my will and finally raised. Donning and still sitting upon the edge of the king-size bed, what was deliberately bought by my prematurely departed wife for the indecorums and wanton indulgence with which we've been preoccupied for the last six years, I yearned to crawl out in the streets, to sally down the forever proliferating lanes and alleys of this city and fulfil what I've planned to procure.
In attempt to substitute the only words coming to my mind with euphemisms I left off, bound for the nearest shop, merchandising electronics, open in the first hours of the dawn. As usual, repetitive paroxysmal contraction of blood vessels in my temples caused severe and acute pain, which is used to last up to the point when I could give up and cast my own self into the reaching arms of Azrael, now was alleviated with precocious precognition of something to come, and who knows, perchance, a harbinger of unveiled resolution to the quandary I was in. For the final destination was not nigh, I had to investigate a small number of drugstores for the appropriately strong painkiller I currently needed, aiding me in regaining my common companions in the past, the melancholy and nonchalance, as rapidly
as possible in the current situation. Athwart the local museum, which has witnessed many generations, I eyed what I was scouring for and hurried, with a reluctance of a weary beggar, crossing himself while passing out from starvation, to get inside, make a purchase and return to my dwelling, and that I did without a delay, taking a slightly fluctuating walk to and out of the above mentioned promising building. In a few decades of ticks of the minute arrow, I was removing the packed contents of the box...

CHAPTER 2

**************

Newlyweds, who, running into haphazard audacious passersby dilute in them abrupt plunging into morose emotion of sympathizing to a couple during their infatuated period with evocation of introspective endeavors to compare and to supersede themselves with the either spouse, have just bought this statuesque house, towering above other cottages in the region, embezzling grotesquery of an Anglo-Saxon castle with its being a miniature replica of one, let alone an arduous fence and blossoming orchard it had.
George didn't care about the previous owner, who had suddenly disappeared without a conspicuous hint of abandonment four years ago, albeit the adroitness of Lillian who, despite her degree in spiritual science, philosophy, and bias to theology, that is, in particular, soteriology, obstinately professed amateur researches on inexplicable events, gathering as much information as she could and compiling it in her laptop, whilst her husband marvelled at Lily, focused on the systematic studying, free from agitation, but, like a breeze that comes before the storm, he foresaw the impending loquacious discourse with her on what she had been writing. That time, she held the equivalent position with George, digressing from her usual occupation and conversing on worldly, not ecclesiastical or supernatural, as her partner have always expected, news. Unsophisticated chitchat did not surprise George, as the cantankerous flamboyance spontaneously, but inevitably takes turns with recumbency in behavior of many a creative individual.

....

In Lieu Of Narration

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 04:48:16 GMT

Élan

Heartsore eddying of horror, objurgated, scorned and lost,
Permeate my dingy body - the chrysalis, thine humble host,
Oh, the tableaux of relumed - seat thy henchman to His left,
Let me dip in things forgotten and beget a wicked craft.

Nascent spells, born 'ere, swathe me with thine nourishing curbs!
Give me cloyed taste of broken, shattered, crumbled godly hopes,
Seeping from a cramoisie grimoire that is unearthed!
Let me espy exultantly adust entities aloft!

Adulate the Seventh Seal of the firmanent once steep.
I am pleased, for it is open - fulgurous, thunderous and breached.
And in luster powers coast in, whereas I gloomily stand,
Whencesover they'd appear, He shall take His rightful land.

04.02.08

Memories

My verse is just a scion of thine cogitation,
I flutter at thine implacable imagination,
As I behold thine combination, Aphrodite -
A pulchritudinous connoisseur and deity.

The lines herein unleash the truth,
They hint at something left forgotten,
When fauns are looking for a nymph
There's something arcane left unspoken.

Ye, dare now, lessen thy attention from the prose!
Behold thy source of the rememberance so lofty,
I hint at notes, my dear Goddess and my rose,
Alas, my lexicon is gaudy.

early 2008

A bit of explanation:
The first poem is about a man who discovers an ancient book of spells and burns the heavens to sit next to the true God. The fragile impression one gets in the beginning of the poem is used to depict physical weariness of the magician.

The second one is about our memories, memorabilia, nostalgia and confabulations. The memories are beautiful, yet full of envy to oneself, with the worst facts remembered better, and often are connected with the loved ones (who either are still with us or have betrayed us), thus Aphrodite, who was rather an ambiguous character (as we all know she was jealous towards Psyche, trying to take her down with her ruses), is mentioned there.

Interviews For Mario's Metal Mania

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 09:18:39 GMT

The interviews with:

Vader, Polish Death Metal:
http://www.mariosmetalmania.com/interviews.html#Vader

Cauldron Born, American Heavy Metal:
http://www.mariosmetalmania.com/interviews.html#Cauldron%20Born

Decadence, Swedish Death / Thrash Metal:
http://www.mariosmetalmania.com/interviews.html#Decadence

Portrait, Swedish Heavy Metal:
http://www.mariosmetalmania.com/interviews.html#Portrait

Thoughts For An Acquaintance

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 09:00:28 GMT

The people are malleable in the influence of their surroundings as well as not contumacious to depart from their coops of language restrictions, and that is a forerunner of a consternation as they witness something they don't hearken to daily. But let us separate colloquial stylistics from bookish and lofty. By no manner of means, bookish, or "written" speech is intended to take the reader down, it serves as an aid in elucidation. There are people, having English as their vernacular, who speak much more eloquently as you might expect them to and I have great deference towards such, and yet they do not blame, for they have patience, tolerance in understanding others for their terse and concise speech.

Rod C. Carbonell's Story

Thu, 21 Feb 2008 08:02:11 GMT

Rod C. Carbonell, a talented Panamian writer, has given birth to such a miniature today:

"Two moons floated over a barren planet where the abandoned cities proved that life had evolved and perished, leaving behind nothing but rocks and dust and crowds of smoke that were like remnants of a bloody war. The starships descended upon the planet. They were like metal monsters that could devour entire islands. They had been built for conquest, and the cannons attached to their hulls made it clear they were space predators. Their engines were silent, so they could sneak into any unsuspecting world, kill thousands, never encountering resistance. Their landing gears touched the ground,and the gangplanks were lowered with hissing sounds that resembled a thousand whispers. The Skyrrons marched out, boots tramping over metal. They spread all over the desert, looking like marauders who would kill anything that moved and devour it. In the distance, Jennifer looked at them through infrared binoculars. These were the bastards who had desecrated her world, killed her friends, family, everyone. Now she was perhaps the only human left, alone, but not ready to stop fighting. Knowing she could never defeat thousands of beasts all by herself, not with a petty machine gun, she was devising a plan that would end the Skyrrons' reign of terror. She just needed to entertain them, so she could sneak inside their vessels and plant a nuclear warhead. But, knowing the Skyrrons were stupid, Jennifer sold them opium. Now stoned, the Skyrrons pilots crashed their starships against the sun and burned to death, laughing maniacally as the opium turned them into complete morons."

Revealed Story Abstract

Fri, 15 Feb 2008 08:41:45 GMT

I have caught the inspiration seed by conversing with several friends and started writing a new story.. I will keep the post updated as I write it.

The Quiet Room

"A spacious room, as if distended with tittering admixed with macabre hysterical screams on the top of the lungs still growing in its size for the last minutes, seemingly fluorescent with indiscernible white phosphorus which diluted the reality in quaint mysticism of the elaborate cuisine of the impressive person, embellished with no grace, but with vigor of a behemoth, with his muscles protruding from his everyday attire, which in no way could be referred to as a finery, stood with a regal bearing close to a huge cauldron near the window.

If an unsophisticated soul could descry all the art of that person, who entrenched the entrance to the room with freshly captured children struck with grisly sentiments, who in their turn were enwreathed by a congeries of half-conscious meat with peeled skin, but still bearing a trace of sentience, full of meager and scant limited moves, gaping air with their cavities which could be guessed as mouths, grabbing the rope, which was tightly holding the kids together, he or she would be entered into torpor by the insalubrity of the picture. But to Alex, measuring his abundant collection of butcher knives in his hands while throwing glances at the "pests", as he called them, breathing with full life, still untouched by the brilliance of the meatman's cuts, the sarcasm of this weekend life had turned into a delectation.

The basement of the edifice, what could be ostensibly called a charnel, where Alex was living since the day he moved out from his parents' apartment, was a sound-proof room, fully isolated from the outer world by a music group of the previous owner's son, thus turning any sound of unrestricted and epicure carnage of stabbing, bone breaking and raping into the resemblance of tacit footsteps of a feline alternating with quiescent mewls and crunches of dry cat food in the maw of that animal, so no neighbor and confidant of the man could even guess what had been going on there.

Knowing that by procuring the most laudable and clamorous screams from the quietest victim his sentiments would be gratified by louder shouts and pleads of mercy from the remaining kids, he opted for racking and cooking the most quiet girl out of the bunch first. Being only two years old, she wasn't able to eschew or resist the grasp of that handsome and stately man, who served as a succor to the humanity by cleansing the world of such filth as these "pests", as he was untying the rope holding her fast to the others in the concourse, and in a moment's flash, she felt her right hand joints and tendons twisting, cracking with a deaf and abrupt popping sound as he coerced her into resting herself with her head down on the floor which was filled with mucus, dirt and still non-coagulated blood.

Alex's gluttonous righteous desire to indulge the corporeal satisfaction never was fed with the family life, so he found the ambrosia in the intensity of the resisting walls of the vaginas of women, freshly deflorated against their will in their inceptive years; hence, he put some of the weight of his body, enough to hold the girl still, onto hers, as he unhurriedly kept pushing into the orifice of the kid with his erected manhood, preemptorily exuberantly greased with baby fat that he had rendered from his previous victims. Feeling the twitches of the childish lagoon, he pressed on, tearing through the thin membrane that he didn't even manage to catch feeling of, moving in and out of the girl's cave in methodical motions, which were carrying the sweetest and delicate impulses to his brain, intensified and ameliorated by descrying blood on his organ. Then, giving himself in to the moans of pain, which were cutting out every now and then when the victim kept running out of breath, he massaged her back for twenty minutes, observing how gentle the meat is, reached out for the large meathooks that were lying on the table on the left of him and unexpectedly pierced her flesh from under her left shoulder blade with one swift swing of a hook, making the baby go under, and, by unforgivable mistake, he pierced her right one with the other hook while she was still unconscious."

End of Update 1.

An International Project

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 07:17:47 GMT

Some infallible deeds are sloping down indelible scars onto one's heart thus taking us aback with an assertive, yet mendacious thought that we're not meant to live on this plane, and leave it dastardly. But let not such a syncretism fall dead upon you, since such assumption should be expelled, ejected our from our weary and melancholic psyche. I've been commended with good news today, but still there's something excoriating my inner self, with its listless, drooping, and limitless vitality of the anti-matter.
On the other hand, what do you procure if you clash two individuals originating from different continents? A miticulous approach to a leading instrument and lyrical content by a Siberian musician multiplied by the thrash vim expelled by a Texan member, thus producing the following piece of art (forgive my audacity for calling it so):

The new song can be obtained at this location.

Illegitimate Pest

Spurning thine ill-gotten tricks, I abut on the unwonted faith.
Ignoring squabbles and obloquies, thee art being so naive.
A quixotic knave laying the way to dying on a triplet cross,
No epexegesis can be given of this inane (and reckless) loss.

God, Save Me! No!

Expiate us, thee, bleak and vapid, for strong will ever thrive!
With plausible inveracity thine book is soaked up
Exacerbated with thine moans, spear in the heart I drive
Forsooth, thine philosophy is of the niddering, tyrant.

I humble not before thine rancorous entity, hierophant.
We sagely expatiate on the judicious treatise rant,
We work on gramarye as my behest is to be fulfilled
For less humane our confidants now shalt be.

Envy and lust are at last sempiternally rapt
With the former we compete with the latter we create
Grinding on annals skulls, we praise our true gods.
We realize our domain foretold by the stars.
By the seas, by our Lord, Baphomet.
------

A Counsel.

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 07:56:25 GMT

Verily, you speak the veracious thing when you say I am not religious. Though I wouldn't claim I am not esoteric.

Why would one think Christianity is a disadvantage to the people?

Most Christians are inept in concinnities, as well as they do not demarcate inconsequentiality in their Holy Book from logical writing, blindly extolling the writing and following the God's word. Most arts are enjoined from being indulged in, which are, namely: music, writing, esoteric and scientific rationality.
When we speak about Christians we are debating upon Christianity. The Christians are the retainers of the religion and representatives of the belief itself, are they not?
I've read the Holy Bible, and can tell that it's not dubious that it's just a fairy tale created by an individual or a group of individuals, so to say. It's impossible for a Christian to be an immaculate follower of the faith, since the book is already an interpretation and mistranslation of Hebrew pagan texts.

So, because a Christian can't be a follower of the faith, the faith itself is a disadvantage?

I should leave an adscititious blatant note though: Christianity is a tool of fear and mass control. The faith itself is flawed. It is based upon another religion, while it is denying its provenance.

Is it a disadvantage because the faith itself is false, flawed, is a fairy tale and people don't follow it?

It's not really a "disadvantage". If we don't have people who follow a faith, we won't get sagacious people who are advancing our society further on. In those numbers we have it across the world, it is a downside, the humanity rills into its obtuse way of development. There's no absolute thing, and what I have just disparaged may be beneficial for another person. This is a game of contrasts, too.

What do I think would change without the religion?

I think humanity is better off without religions, which should stay just on paper, not extrapolated onto humankind. Look at Orthodox Russia: Russians are vodka-drinkers and debauchers ruled by a despot leader who introduces Jehovah in their lives for the mass control while people die from poverty and high inflation.
The world without religion is Utopian, since the masses aspire to easier things and they are unwonted to thinking on their own. A lot of people will have no trouble publishing and writing their poems, music and scientific projects. But yet, I perceive what is good or bad from my own philosophy. I don't say it is a necessity for you, my dear reader, to the extent that you might feel otherwise. You are entitled to your own opinion and I venerate that.

Nonsense

Thu, 22 Nov 2007 10:04:28 GMT

A couple of blokes noticed that when caffeine that I take once in a fortnight is kicking in, it is altering my flow of a conversation... Here's an excerpt of our irrational conversation:
"In my inebriety I philter my envoys of swart sagaciousness, and it is mendacious that a grue concatenates with me as I realize how much excreta I gather with the life I lead. I should not baffle my nibbling of my nexus of thoughts, since there's a penchant for what I would call: "an expedite truth", what you get only with fast loquaciousness. It is as pugnacious as an impregnated amie striking a cautionary pose as I endeavour to pierce her progeny's eyes with needles I gather from under the nails of my previous prey. It is intoned in my head lucidly, and, insofar, it is my driving creative power."

A Gap of Inactivity

Wed, 14 Nov 2007 05:22:02 GMT

    Petty squabbles standing erect and the progress amounting to naught - that is what attending our group lately. The consternation of what has yet to occur is manacling, since we're fumbling our inceptive financial support accompanying the muse; my susceptibilities are on a brink of non-perception as I realize the peculation of our accumulated material: half of the rhythmical section is in oblivion, half of the lead section is in a grave condition as we rill from one abstruse genre to another, more definite, unaware of what reaction it will cause among the rout.
I have discovered my fears, with their sallow hue, with their presumptuous grip, with their shrewd incentive to progress; I should confabulate about them freely, as only soliloquies and colloquies aid and relieve us from the relishing stupor of a phobia. I dread solitude, a loss of sources of sagaciousness advancement and a strong physical detriment, leading to disabilties. The list goes on.
I acquired new confidants and acquaintances through my sordid, prude ways of an inane conversionalist, and I cannot cease to amaze how little I've managed to achieve with my tiny mind, and how I long for more, not deserving that.

    ...I just yearn to be at a different place, at a different time...

I finally managed to publish my simplistic, unsophisticated, and even filled with mistakes of hurriedness interviews on the internet source at http://www.mariosmetalmania.com/interviews.html.
Should I go forth and be inspired by Moorcock's and R. E. Howard's fantasy in my poetry?

But still,
    ...I just yearn to be at a different place, at a different time...

I am back

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 08:46:54 GMT

Appearances of sights I have been to are dwindling, becoming vacuous when I recall the stalwart trace of the festival held in Crimea, which had been drawing out its presence for three days and nights on the territory adjacent to the country I exist in. Expectancies of revision, exigent corrections for my possessions for the hereafter are haunting me with its flagrant grip, not allowing me to think of anything else, leaving me fallow when I am to write more, when I am to learn more.
I have a penchant for resuming the journal, but the ebbing mind is veraciously hindering me from composing, but I will be pugnacious towards any holistic idleness and just keep on.

Thu, 17 May 2007 07:49:59 GMT

Sometimes I covet for drought - the torrents of rain and drizzle taking turns, overlapping the spring time, purging the asphalt-covered roads from pitch black snow, hazardous with its impurities, anastomosed with the clear, alabaster, lucid and transparent crystals, reflecting the light from the pavements, yet disclosing the uneven blemish, the dislocation, and interstices, bringing the reminiscence of the foregone effusion of frigidness, ranging from twenty Fahrenheit to minus thirty while one is relishing the approaching warmth of one hundred degrees in the sun.

Today, I have a riddle for you all, and there will be a half of a dozen of these, so, I warn the reader of the patience and tolerance required.

"Fountains of youth, show me the wrath,
An angel of death riding an ice titan,
Where deathlike silence falls into the depths of sorrow,
And the barbaric order will lay down the law,
The battle is over, but the war is at hand."

Distress

Fri, 11 May 2007 08:32:40 GMT

    A crucial perfomance and three less important.
What kind of an astute action can revert the adverse course of events and bring the verisimilitude of integrity back into the existence as every step to the entirety is lopsided and leads to a plethora of belligerence, hindering, churning and spewing forth more and more problems?

    The sixth of July must be not missed, the thirty-first of May should not be expunged from the annals history and the least valuable the twenty-third of May and the fifth of June may not be eschewed as a whim of anyone.

How drastic can this be: we already lack a member, replacing it with an impermanent substitute, though desiring the replacement to become steady, another part of our company decides to leave the city for a fortnight during the performance of a supreme importance and a trio just wouldn't quench the perfectionism hunger of the pack leader...

    How? The retort will be sought out.

Striving Against Oneself

Fri, 04 May 2007 07:56:29 GMT

Such a hedonist as an epicure would tell that sustenance expends the bigger share of his pecuniary means, but an opposite to the traditional approach goads me to contemplate over such a spree as my wallet is condemned to subversive emptiness with onsets of lunch and supper, distinguished from normal needs and wishes by their insatiable addiction, peculiar or close to the drug dependence. Exacerbated, embittered by tattering and indelible pauperism, I allude to censure of this entertainment.
Another artistic, but not unpalpable creation is being brought into this world, and I hope it won't be unlettered and unlearnt in case something terrific and unexpected spews onto me with its escapism.

Shattered.
A person wielding upon funereal, blunt and demoralizing stratagems, directed at his own allies; but we'll be back on our two, however felled we are, I know... all the quartet.

Fissure To Heal

Fri, 27 Apr 2007 03:07:50 GMT

The frissions of discontent incandescing my bursts of quiescent indignation - those shivers resulting from the past numerous events, most of which, intermingling and swapping places with each other, I am not apt to share even with myself, endeavoring to cast them in the oblivion of the past occurences, long forlorn and deprived of their appraisal. The one who shared our company for one event and a month of work, whom I endeared not due to the tastes and philosophy, and, on the other hand, whom I, which I find eerie (but I still can give an adscititious remark, defending my point), would like to keep, had to relinquish the position, which is another consquence of the illogical ruses, in respect of musicianship, of the one who runs the company. The dismissal is never a good sign.

Torrents of values, both numerical and spiritual, the convexity and concavity of a paragon never formed, the requests to be burnt into the eternity; coalescence of the determent, creating new, indefeasible; reciprocations; protracting the lending, paroxysmal psychosis... Such an infamy of living...
Forgive my brevity, I would rather not delve in the details of such a debacle.

What I insinuate is a cue for a felicitation, which I always detect beckoning at the horizon. Yet, there are those who dream to supersede you for the tenure of living, I emphasize while being affected with the empathy, living!

The balance of obnoxious and pleasing should be kept, and here is the revelry, the delectation for the eye of the beholder:

Serenity...

Fri, 20 Apr 2007 08:44:29 GMT

Languid indifference, with undaunted insolence being seemingly aware of my wretched state, unduly permeates every pore in my body, which in its turn gets swathed in an even weight, as if a cavalcade had been marching over my corporeal part, unfurls my clandestine ennui, but I, sweetened by yesterday's blandishments, attempt to fill in missing points in the hiatus of my instrument and lingual practices, ablating all physical efforts by buckling down in the mental area, which at least, beclouded by the frailness, keeps its vivid existence.

Next forty four hours will be devoted to two instruments and a lyrical preparation, inasmuch as this day is the harbinger of the weekend to come.

Dark Angel's "Darkness Descends" - 1986 has been stirring me up for the last quarter of an hour reminding me of the scant discourses with Danyel through the correspondence... But now I require solace of a seclusion, something I haven't been able to afford, and still can't have.

Lunatic Asylum lyrics

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 03:03:13 GMT

    David C. Smith's "Engor’s Sword Arm" coerces me to cerebrate on distracted topics, aiding me by mollifying my discrepancies, angst and spite towards the individual mentioned yesterday. Today's dusk will either burden or relieve me with the tidings on the group I am engaged in. May Egregors help me in such a dilemma.

    Telekenesis, clairvoyance and dreams within dreams... Waking up, I covet for these parapsychological preternatural prowesses, not realizing I am awake inside another dream, where the final coming out of the sleep is nothing but a disenchantment - futile attempts to rise up in the air, affect nigh objects around me distantly end up in unvarnished foreseeable dissatisfaction.

    This day divulges another lyrical theme, inspired by eponymous H.P. Lovecraft's "The Cats of Ulthar", which attains a substantial consistency in me with the seemingly coetaneous author, his way of espying and sensing things, although he has been creating a few years less than a century ago.

"And in the end the burgesses passed that remarkable law
which is told of by traders in Hatheg and discussed by travelers in Nir;
namely, that in Ulthar no man may kill a cat."
H.P. Lovecraft

The Ulthar Revenge

Incensed Christians mustered up to dispose of conflagrant sacks,
Vocifirations intensely ripping through enormous tightened bags,
Contentious towards any vestige of witchcraft heresiarch,
Importunate fanatics razing feral essence turning insomniac.

Deprecating monotonous prayers spurting out from a wandering stranger's lips,
The darkness manifests ominous midnight, executing its summoned decrees.
Cryptic verse whispering in sinister and unremitting resuscitations,
Rapacious eyen are staring at Inquisitor's uncalled-for counteractions.

Advent of vengeance have obtained new mold of livid drab of flesh
Forthcoming killing spree befalling the somnolent city in a flash
Those who dared to obey the Church are haunted to the second of the aurora.
Veriest parasitizing God's word palacating at imminent bloodshed soilure.

Popes tremble in fear as they hear screams of every victim clawed to death.
Convened those hordes gnarl as sign of decease is put upon another soul bereft.
Free of this imprication redolence wisdom supersedes the religion destined to die.
Harangue of dysphoria falls silent, bestial gazes retreat into shades of the inscrutable life.

01.02.07

Pummelling of Troubles

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 03:50:37 GMT

Upheavals caused by musician squanderers who trudge beside me imminently precipitate upon my shoulders, severing the fate I've been fashioning for so many months and years - a day ago I had a deluge of fudge, resulting in a mental breakdown, paroxysmal cretinism and soliloquy, so to say, not from my side. Scheduled performances in May and July are in peril, but still, we retain six weeks to waive his right to erect cruces out of nought. Alas, the calamities are behind every corner, lurking and putting themselves on display out of the surreptitiousness.
Enough of this malodourousness molded in lexical units. What we surpass makes us tough, and I am not wading through the path of pusillanimous.

The night I've been through bore a fruitition of a sequence of patterns passing through my mind: stepping back through time to warn our kin about the forthcoming deaths, then switching roles and living through the lives of the ones who have been visited by the messengers from the future and pondering over that visit, awaiting the portentious prophecy... The sensations now are waning, but the lesson is learnt, I should contemplate over the ineluctable occurrences and consequencies...

Despondency is my trait at the moment...

Dreams

Tue, 17 Apr 2007 03:27:40 GMT

I shan't dissemble and allege how decrepit is one's body after a dormancy during the early spring and winter, and if the reader is able to attest that, by juxtaposing their experience with mine, I'll regret not hearkening their encapsulated thoughts. An oscitancy is certainly not the prize sought by the man, but visions, bright but obliquitous compensate for this. I was deprived of this gift again... No matter how hard and strenuously I travail with my brain, the torture resolves into an immense gap.

Alas, the nightmare left me out again, the genre I take pleasure in the most, giving myself up to creating the horrendous and indelicate images in my mind amidst the course of lucid dreaming: countenances of uncouth beasts, peering in my eyes with opposition, perchance, a deluge of blood sprinkling from the dying, cadavers, a charnel, decaying limbs at my abode, amassing and reeking sweetly...
Still, I retain the vigour to overcome the indolence and unbrirdle the flow of sentiments here. I assent that they might be not quite acute for the moment, but niggardliness is irksome for my personality.