The Shrine Of Mad Laughter

God of terror, very low dost thou bring us, very low hast thou brought us.

A sensation of everlasting rot and those frantic wails, no, it is not a fall into
The abyss, the defiance of descent, a coronation beyond liberty and slavery
The cry of woe and deliverance exudes a flame, evasive as sound and ether
An instant of collusion with death, without hope nor prospect, yet it is a
World below and above and in all eternity, a gift of fever, the wind of death
That sustains the life in me, yes, the lightness of hovering in permanent
Anguish; i dared to borrow those words, to articulate them and to savour
Their turpitude, as i beheld the shrine of mad laughter.

The limit is crossed with a weary horror: hope seemed a respect which
Fatigue grants to the necessity of the world.

As if Death was dashed onto the death within, a violent thrust stealing the
Light of the eyes, a ray of darkness, a negation, the bread of bitterness that
Ignites neither devotion nor fervour; resplendent nothingness! Make all
Things appear with clarity, ruined in the flame of repudiation, in the flame
Of God! Interwoven joy and confusion, a stabbing confusion, asphyxiation
From within, yet i gained this certitude: malediction, degradation, sown in
Me like seeds, now I belonged to my flesh; I belonged to death, in harbouring
A desire for the hideous, I was beckoning to death. Insatiable combustion
Expand, this body is thy vessel of grace!

The idea of God is pale next to that of perdition, but of this i could have no
Inkling in advance.