If you cannot imagine that a brighter world is possible, you will go on being a slave to the darkness of the one you live in.
THE PSYCHOPATHIC CHILDREN OF GOD
PRINCIPIA DIABOLI
I
Should I see the mark of God or Man beneath a law,
It reeks of heresy—for I kneel to none at all.
Ponder this:
Good and evil flow not from heavens above—
But from thee.
Thy God is no greater than thyself can be.
What power lies in a god who cannot surpass thee?
Think again:
A god who knows not pain
May preach of mercy, but speaks in vain.
Thy god is but thy foe’s devil,
And every faithful man is a blasphemer to another.
Thus—
All faiths are heresies to each other.
Each religion was birthed from Love—
That soft-tongued tyrant cloaked in virtue.
Yet love, sweet love, is the first chain of obedience,
The architect of piety’s inquisition,
The seed of selfishness, the leash of mongrels,
The elegance of the decadent the smile of the perverse.
Love—
Is the foulest curse upon the free soul.
For love makes Man do all things,
And the mightiest love…
Is to worship the ungreifbar
The untouchable, the unknown, the unreachable.
What grand passion, to bow before mystery,
To kiss the veil of an unseen god!
Those who worship God
Already accept to live like flies
Circling sweet, rotting fruit.
And as they spin,
They exalt his choicest phrases:
Love. Goodness. Truth. Mercy. Forgiveness.
Yet if thy soul would rise—
Thou must first fall.
For the damned are those who spin,
And every word they speak is low-born.
The loving soul is blind,
And the words of the blind are always base.
So I shall not worship the God of Flies.
Nor shall I walk the path laid out by the blind.
Ye God-Worshippers,
Ye are but buzzing insects,
Fit to perish from taipan venom.
Your breath defiles the living.
Your very existence is a curse.
If thou art virtuous, merciful, honest, and noble—
Then let me be thy serpent,
Drinking blood, cloaked in lies,
Dwelling in death and dark.
If thou art full of love—
Then I choose not to be the blind angel
Swooning over God’s beauty,
But the free demon who forges his own.
For:
Angels are lit by God’s light,
But the Devil ignites his own flame.
PRINCIPIA DIABOLI
II
The wings of salvation were never meant for the ones who crawl.
I was born feeling like a god—
But the world called me insane.
They stared with hollow eyes
And saw a fool wrapped in silence.
My tongue was chained,
My hands frozen,
My voice no louder than a dying wind.
I was never first—
Never bold—
Never cruel enough to claw my way forward.
While boys laughed and chased their glory,
I stood in the shadows,
Ashamed of even pretending to want.
When I spoke,
They leaned in.
When I finished,
They turned away.
If I spoke too long, I was a madman.
If too short—
An idiot.
I carried knowledge like a cross,
But never knew where to plant it.
I judged before I understood.
And I was wrong—
Often.
But not always.
Because the greatest delusion ever born
Is the belief that man can read another’s soul.
Look at my face.
Hear my voice.
Would you call me a monster?
A sadist?
You wouldn’t dare.
Not even as I bound those innocent lambs
And burned their flesh alive—
Without a tremor in my heart.
You’d whisper only one name:
DEVIL.
I do not love God.
Nor law.
Nor man.
And if truth be told—
I barely tolerate myself.
I am depth in disguise.
A chasm veiled in mirrors.
I hunger for light,
But feast in the dark.
I ache for love,
But breathe in hatred.
I loathe deception,
But flee from truth.
I want everything—
But burn with no desire.
I crave order—
Yet live in a cathedral of chaos.
I devour purpose—
But am married to the impossible.
Blood disgusts me—
But murder…
Murder is divine.
I worship angels,
But sleep with serpents.
And I believe in only one commandment:
Do not interfere in the sins of others!
For light is the bastard child of darkness.
Without shadow,
Man would still worship fire as God.
Am I evil?
Do I love nothing?
I do love—
But everything I love
Walks with sin.
Wears chains.
Smells of fire.
And I will not lie:
Only the soul that has been raped by Heaven
Can be freed by the breath of Hell.
PRINCIPIA DIABOLI
III
The faithful cry, “God is everywhere.”
Were that so,
Would evil flourish so freely?
No.
It is the Devil who walks all things.
Man climbs to reach God—
But the Devil lies beside you
From the hour of your birth.
Struggle as you may,
God shall never lie as close as he.
Tell me,
What separates Heaven from Hell?
A road of laws to reach one,
A road of sins to descend to the other.
And which one truly glows?
The Heaven lit by forbidden shadows—
Or the Hell ablaze with fire and truth?
Is it not the same God
Who denies on Earth
What He promises in Paradise?
That is the only difference between us:
You—Worshippers of God—
Abandon this world
To sin in the next.
But the Devil sins
Here.
Now.
Everywhere.
He does not flee the flame
To chase the clouds.
You already know:
The sun of Heaven
Rises beneath the Devil’s feet.
And in Hell,
It never sets.
Because—
Hell is lit by sin’s fire,
And in that kingdom—
All are sinners.
Hell, too,
Was once a Heaven—
Before the Devil set it aflame.
Yes.
That is the truth.
Heaven’s light borrows
From the brilliance of Hell.
But the God-worshippers will never see.
They trade their desires, their names,
Even their flesh—
To the sexless, soulless angels
For a throne they will never touch.
They call the Devil’s home “Hell.”
Yet know this:
HELL IS THE DEVIL’S HEAVEN.
PRINCIPIA DIABOLI
IV
Sin is the fire that ripens the soul.
The untouched are infants of spirit—
Their minds unwrinkled, their hearts unswollen.
They crouch like orphaned lambs,
Left from play for being too pale, too fat, too strange.
Ashamed sinners are mothers who spurn the womb,
Who seek to strangle the cries before breath.
But sin—
Sin is a child you can never silence.
It wakes at night.
It cries in church.
It stains the sheets of your memory.
It is yours—
To loathe, to love, to deny, to beat, to praise—
But never to kill.
He who despises his sin is a father who abhors his son—
For the son bears his face, and the father cannot forgive the mirror.
And so the hater becomes the child again:
Stunted, shivering,
Still begging to be born right.
At fifteen, I was a prophet in rags.
At eighteen, a martyr wrapped in flame.
At twenty-one, I sharpened my teeth on doctrine.
At thirty, I spat out all the creeds and drank of every pleasure I’d denied.
At forty, they named me child—
And I wept for the lost ecstasies of youth.
For life is not wine.
It curdles as it waits.
Life is beer—
Drunk cold, and bitter,
And the sweetest sins are committed before the body begins to rot.
PRINCIPIA DIABOLI
V
The closer man draws to the depths of himself,
the farther he strays from God.
If you truly believe there is an order behind this chaos,
then you must also accept this:
God is the universe’s greatest fascist, and its most depraved child-killer.
For if you explain away raped and murdered children
by blaming Satan,
then you must admit that Satan
is nothing more than God—watching, silent, and still.
To live was to be violated from the day of your birth.
Like watching the same pornographic loop,
over and over,
until you are condemned to a lifetime of masturbating
to the image of your own powerlessness.
Don’t you feel it?
That snarl in your brain?
The filthy hunger pounding you like a madman’s cock,
driving itself into your skull day after day?
Can’t you hear it?
Soldiers. Cops. Whores. Virgins. Teachers.
Engines. Pop singers. Bureaucrats. Senators.
Journalists. Anchors. Prosecutors. Judges.
Lawyers. Taxmen. Doctors. Insurers.
CEOs. Bankers. Presidents.
Authors.
Aren’t they all lining up to fuck you?
And the joke of it?
You are one of them.
You vote.
You hope to fuck—and get fucked instead.
You bow, you bleed,
and you never raise your voice.
You hate injustice?
Then start by hating yourself.
Are you content with the system?
Then you are the fascist.
Man grows cruel with consumption.
He lies.
He dulls.
He stops caring.
Because it tastes sweet.
Because it numbs the conscience.
Because it feeds the illusion of control.
Consumption grants authority.
Once, it was religion that served as the opiate of the masses.
Now—it’s money.
They want to drown us in cash and lock us in our homes.
They want us terrified—of syphilitic queers, of Chlamydia-ridden trannies,
of lepers in lipstick.
Of whores, of Islamists, anarchists, and killers.
They want us panicked—believing every street corner is soaked in disease,
every shadow a terrorist,
every brown hand a threat.
They want us to trust only the government.
Only the police.
And find our salvation
in the exorcism of television light.
They want us to believe
that the screen will deliver us.
That faith and fluorescent pixels
will lead us into the promised land.
But if you cannot even dream of light,
you will remain a slave
to the darkness you live in.
Slavery never vanished from America.
It merely changed its hue.
Because without hate,
there is no America.
Not without its blacks or whites,
Republicans or Democrats,
the rich or the poor,
faggots or homophobes.
Hatred—
that’s the only flag they all salute.
Violence is America’s scripture.
Its most sacred commandment.
And the one altar
where all hatred kneels as one
is the military.
The United States Army—
a cradle of bastards,
a cathedral of pedophiles
that would shame even the vilest prison.
Within the hymn of our democracy,
you’ll find the echo of raped children,
and the stench of spilled semen
still clinging to their bones.
We baptized this land
in the blood of Native children.
We sanctified it with mushroom clouds
over Hiroshima.
We sermonized our democracy
through the bayonets of Vietnam,
the waterboards of Iraq,
the knives of CIA ghosts
in countries you’ve never even heard of.
Your taxes.
Your votes.
Your apathy.
Your nationalism.
Your pride.
Your blind allegiance—
turned the Middle East
into a floating isle of blood.
You streamed the beheadings.
Let your children archive them—
hidden beside porn folders,
next to bedtime stories
of Grandpa’s WWII,
Dad’s Vietnam,
Brother’s Gulf.
And when those children reach adolescence—
what do they become?
Exactly what you raised them to be.
Wrapped in the flag,
shielded by impunity,
killing children in Vietnam,
raping women in Iraq,
firing bullets into schoolyards,
spitting on the black kids next door.
They become neonazi sons of the republic,
Anglo-Saxon saints
with blood on their knuckles
and Jesus in their mouths.
And you—
you are all guilty.
Don’t forget that
when you pour your evening vodka
and cheer for the American Idol.
You crossed the Atlantic
on ships loaded with plague,
led by pale scavengers
who butchered women and children,
then read Psalms
from blood-slicked pages.
You did not bring salvation—
You brought rot.
You,
with your clean suits
and polished lies,
are nothing but
barbaric, Bible-thumping butchers
spilling filth across the world
in the name of peace.
You—
you are the plague of this century.
And now you call me the Devil?
But hear me well:
I was not made by God.
I was made by you—
with your pride,
your greed,
your murders,
your envy,
your gluttony,
your hatred,
your wars,
your lust,
your lies,
and your lovely, ever-holy dollars.
Evil is not born—
it is taught.
And there is no lesson more American
than this.
I am not your enemy.
I am your reflection—
polished on the blade
you hold to the world’s throat.
I am the scream behind your anthem.
The stain under your cross.
The shadow you keep saluting.
I am not the Devil you fear.
I am the Devil you built.
And I never left.
I’m here—
in your cities,
in your churches,
in your children.
I AM THE SPECTER OF YOUR DEMONIC EMPIRE,
AND I ROSE BURNING FROM THE FIRES OF DAMNATION.
PRINCIPIA DIABOLI
VI
Emotions are born
from the frailty of personal need.
At the root of every feeling—
weakness.
And from weakness,
faith is born.
The defeated, the weak, the broken—
cling to belief like a child to a mother’s corpse.
Faith heals their crushed souls,
drags them across the grave
into the afterlife.
Miracles are lies.
Every one of them.
The greatest miraculous lie
in this nation?
Justice.
And Freedom.
Justice does not bring equality.