DEVIL MAY CARE

Well It’s everyone who actually looks at this sites lucky day… Not only am I gonna give all of you a bunch of previews of brand new works but I’ve also found and finally decide to release some old stuff thats pretty… Controversial… 😉

This is and Older one I found

DEVIL May CArE

I’m Inside Your Head

Vol. 1

I’m inside your Head!!! Breathing and singing from your sleep and warring with my flame in the day. For one second look beyond your brokenhearted dissolution and remember to choke. As if choking on the words weren’t enough, you have to blind us with mediocrity. The spinning and the crying turn into screams and the voice you hear is bringing you to a terrible demise. Why can’t I get away from you with all your bullshit and self-induced melancholic lies! Self-pity bringing you down to a whole new low.

The compositional feigning is just ridiculous at this late hour. But your ever changing want is flaming to the ever changing point. Can you still hear my Voice inside your head?! If so then stop acting juxtapose to your own reflection of what you wish you could be! Cautious warnings are for the faint of heart. This is a fucking Promise! Stop being so goddamn pretentious about what you are! You can’t tell your ass from your own hand! What you make is shit! How could you be disgraceful enough to even have the thought? You’re like an Atom! A motherfucking Atom!

Can you hear me? Fluttering through your memories like a long lost thought that will never reappear? Slideshows of tormented grief empty out my empathy and leave me with a few more things to say. Crossed into the shape of butterflies, your silence stays golden in mine eye. Scarlet Stains the blackened violent thoughts through our head. The crimson flows into the emptiness. Sweet scarlet pools fill the abyss in our mind and caress the emptiness of our condition. You recreant muse, what do you think is the key? The overwhelming hidden hex to fulfill the awesomely negative ether in your improbably tainted disillusioned essence?

The truth of the matter is you were never in control… The voices block all golden hope to your thoughts… The overwhelming sense of hopelessness emerges into the blackness and the folly begins to taint it all!

NOW YOU’RE INSIDE MY HEAD!!!

DEVIL-MAY-CARE

Quelling my natural psychotropic theme of regret, my inhibitions lead me to despair. Running in circles is tantamount to my subjective raising of the Dead. Spilling into pools of shadows maybe I can reconvene to some sort of falling out. Spilling into puddles of sorrow… The glyphs of times passed brush my ill-gotten gains creating a wave of discomfort through my core.

Dripping and bleeding down through the hollow cracks in my center, my mindless self-indulgence begins to take control. The raindrops sing as they fall and smash into the world, showing not how they are such a miracle of the ignored. The Black, The clothes, The intellectual hierarchy only shows that you really don’t understand anything that you aren’t yourself.

Do you know the answers to the questions I want to know? Those hidden truths that you find, oh so, invaluable? Does it even scratch one word into your essence? Bring forth some type of primordial questioning? To think with feeling and not intellect is the one thing you could never understand. I know that you wonder yourself if you’re even capable of feeling anything anymore?

The blankness chloroforms it all into the bleached out gray that seeps out from pillared scarlet smoke stacks that eminate from my emblazoned crimson eyes. Recreant misuse of the tiny amount of the pure blue light within us all diminishes us to be nothing but the never finished melancholic sonnet brought forth by the wretched. The unrealizing way of us as a people don’t fall upon deaf ears. But the screams of the ones below have not been heard by us. And to think we dare call ourselves advanced. It all mutilates us in our unpopulated scorn of divine light.

We are the crudely populated generation in the grips of extortion by the hands of those who held the world before us. The Angel hierarchy fall in sequence to tune of our dying hearts. Bright blackly lit wings and reflections of gold armor that were our excuses fly down past us all.

DHW Book of the Jackal

Ok now… I have never posted this up so I hope you guys enjoy it…From my Days of Hells Winter Series

COMING SOON!

The Book of The Jackal

1st Key
Chapter 1

From the ice grows the misdeeds of the world. Let it be known as the fault of the world for the creation of such a being in such suffering but yet causes such misery. May we know the fault of such evils that we unknowingly bring forth. We grip the razor blades that cut us so deep close to our hearts. Those slices are our love and our comfort. Bring forth the animal within ourselves, caged and shackled by its’ own want, to strike the terror into us that we so desire. O, Jackal, how you have been twisted by our wants so. May we bind him, contort him, and abandon him in the shadows only for him to still fear the fiery blackness which grows out forth from him. O, so beckoning to have its’ lusts released upon us that we have instilled within his own reflection. His tears fall upon sacred ground. Before the saints in which he serves, He takes upon his back all fault of man and the crushing transgressions of our masochistic pure-black wants… With his head caged, arms twisted as the wants of the hypocritical sinners, and his shaven teeth… May you know him. For you have made this beautiful breed of lunacy and forthright you shall be judged by Him. His tears of insatiable crucifixion of the ones the lost one knows he should not hurt but lust-filled seas of pure savagery will freeze the world within its’ own Athiestic melancholy…

Chapter II

That pure lust for savagery overcomes us in our arrogant times of disarray and pulls these words down to but a fragment of what it means to be truly explained. When the contorted and disfigured arm of The Jackal reigns upon us and slams, only to seal our fate, We shall be but a shred of what even the lowest pits of the well perceive to be truly fading to black. Cross not your heart and swear to die for This utterly gorgeous blasphemy may be exactly what is to be upon the masses you so claim you love. The shreds of the Jackals’ victims shall make the Coat of a new king of a frozen kingdom. Of which our darkest nature will be visible. These malicious masquerades bring forth the masks we want to be seen as. When He removes our filters and our covers from us, to truly reveal what is ourselves, we shriek such that is would crack the stars. The Jackal is what we choose to ignore about the lustfully self-punishing cross-bearer of ourselves. The kiss of the hate and melancholy crosses the barriers we can imagine and fuels His rage and torment. Mistake not our fault for the world of carelessness and low cost of life we live within that was created and is sustained by us, the ones who try to stop ourselves from what others do not find pleasurable and thus tighten our own straight-jackets.

2nd Key
Chapter I
He was of no importance to no one. Is it not horrible of how he knew of his own lunacy? The Man knew of the animal within and refused those fateful acts than define us all with our own queries. To shield the world of the wicked claws he bore, he shackled himself within the restraints of that which is the institution made by corrupt men in order to purify others. The Critical irony which all this produces. He knew of the seeping darkness that leaked through his own mind and would not allow the darkness of his lusts which he repressed to be ravaged upon those whom created it such. A saint with the sickness of the dark well full of darkness whom had come about through the wretched and rancid womb of a whore sacrificed all for just being. Who is nobler than such?

Chapter II
The tempetuous lines we cross bring forth such nightmares that we unknowingly bring into this world. Tattering to pieces the thought of which innocence might be maintained through the libituous findings available within the knowing the difference between the Infinite and the finite things we find throughout this realm. Watch the blood-stained Snowflakes fall to the ground. O, How the Crimson snow is the sign of How Black Hell’s winter May truly be.

Chapter III
Disciples! Come and Fall with me! And see the birth of the new Human race! Bow to your God of Cyanide! The New Millenium Cyanide Christ! Let it all freeze over along with my claws! The whores you love are what I am of! Can you feel the icy scratches yet? While I sit upon my throne of Ice covered within the skin of your transgressions, don’t you ever wonder why? Why you made such a thing? The product of your pendolum swaying, throwing your blood from opposite to crimson cloud! Let me cross the Devils bridge to my home once again, to return to my snow covered fortress in which my War table of Ice is governed from the savagery you hold deep within. My court table of Ice reigns Infinitely!

3rd Key
Chapter I
My doomed fallout says nothing other than how my greatness of oblivion rules within. Bride my dear beloved cold and Iced death for which the grave brings but memories of the home I had to leave. Floweth forth that great Red that belongs forth as is said. Incise. Replace. Deplete it all. Just awaiting the unraveling to unleash the ravishing. Black imperfections shed the light we need onto the moments we heed no attention to cherish.

Chapter II
Crack. Snap. Replace. How long will this symbiotic ambigram remain misunderstood… The Most interesting word made of all Human skin. Pull back the red, virgin skin across the back of your ears and tell me is it all still the same. Plot forth to regain all we thought we’d never have. Cold stone brings it all back once again to the way it once was. My banshee screams chill you to your very essence so easily? Spinning in circles with my eyes blinded, screaming,”WHY AM I ALIVE?!”

The Final Transformation
Bones turn to bars as the Vitriolic acid brings back the High. Wrap that cold steel around my blinded face and finally let that beast out from within. On all fours, Can’t you understand my archaic growls? Or is the black seeping from my eyes only but a distraction? Tranquility brings out the torture and Block away all the inconsistincies and look it in the eyes! Smooth forth the creation of features and pin my ribs closer to my insides. The dues of inhalation are what brings that gutteral scream for mercy that you hear. Flip my picture around and read the written flesh. Lady death holds my string in two from now on. As I crawl on all fours with the black pouring from my bolt infused mouth and eyes, the ice flows forth from my hands… The only Jackal within.

TO BE CONTINUED…

-Alucard GrimmJow Lx

The Little Evil Things

A room, desolate and lonely, can only be a room… RIGHT?

A SMALL BABY’S CRIES EMANATE THROUGH THE CLUTTERING NOISE.

An opaque shade of orange lights the bright walls.

The hotel:

A room… One of the hundred in the building lyes empty and untouched. Room #23. A history only defined in blood. All the people that lay in the beds… All the traumatic moments kept silent by time.

What God can protect us from ourselves? Let alone one that doesn’t exist… Hell, if I were him I wouldn’t help us out either.

A woman pushed an old style walker with her baby within. She is dressed in Red and white with her walker being an oddly unsettling shade of white with large black wheels. She tries to sooth her baby as it cries like it is ill.  The spaciousness of the hotel gives the illusion of comfort which fades to the narrow halls of this floor in particular.

As she trails in, trying to pat her baby on the stomach with her hand, her other hand materializes an old fashioned key. Now of course with my semi “New Silent Generation” upbringing, I realize the cliche’ nature of this… But for some reason, electronics seem to not be able to work in room 23.

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1 DAY EARLIER

Even though I know it’s a well overused format, I’ll start things off simply with:

My name is Nixxon Frost… No that isn’t some sort of typo. My name truly is spelled like that. Usually I am the class-A non-believing Ghost hunter. Sure I have a curious demeanor about me but nothing has actually struck me as truly evil… Aside from my ex-wife. I stayed at the fucking Bigsby house where I brushed my teeth right next to the tub where Sir Arthur Smith Drowned his whole goddamn family. That fear that you feel when someone tells you the place where you are is haunted is exactly what causes those indirect phantoms to be brought to reality.

THE HELIAN HOTEL

 My God… Another damn pointless investigation. I’m so sick of wasting the paper writing about this crock of shit. Oh well… At least I can make a buck off it by selling to all those stupid ass *quotation fingers* “Ghost Hunting Enthusiasts”. 

While I’m walking down the sidewalk towards another B.S. Investigation I think about all the other times I’ve been down this whole damn road… What a sham… Most of these people just either want press or money… Whenever I ask if I can come down and investigate to write about the place, the first words I hear are,”For How Much?” What a damn farse.

The good Ol’ Helian Hotel… A shining example of when it’s the right time to tear a piece of history down. I heard of a reported 43 deaths but god only truly knows… Heh… A funky expression coming from an Atheist right?

This old place was the site of the Unis Blooms Wedding night murders… But there are more notable ones as well…

The Secretary Suicides, Several spousal murders, And enough Jumpers to convince people it’s raining fat piece of shit white accountants.

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As I stand in the shadow of the colossus I actually am intimidated. The gray shades of the stone surprise me … In the fact that it’s still here…

Let’s back things up real quick and give a bit of history on Room #23 and how exactly I got here…

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The Helian Hotel was built after ten years of construction in 1923. For some reason though there are records that room #23 stayed empty for almost a year after it was constructed but every other one was used multiple times… I know that probably doesn’t seem odd to a layman but to someone who knows what they’re talking about, That’s a big as warning sign.

The first victim of the “Phantom” in room #23 was Catherine Marie. For all intensive purposes she was noted as a real babe. An absolute MILF that checked in with her baby on February 23 1924. She had a thing about her white carriage that really stuck out in peoples minds.

Personally, This was one of the few incidents that really bothered me.

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At the Local Archives I stood there and asked about the Weeping Mother, Miss Catherine Marie.

ARCHIVE CLERK

So you really wanna know the details? Really isn’t the kind of thing you discuss over tea

ME

Come on, don’t try and sell me any more bullshit, or else we may not be able to put the children to bed…

I Gave him a frank look of impatience. I hate this old spookhouse bullshit… Selling some sort of rotten mystique