In 1971 the Devil released a book and an album
After a millennium in the pit he had a head full of tunes
Every good guitarist owing and betrothed
Every decent singer owes him their throat’s gold
Arousal at fame’s suggestion, their souls by deed his at the moment of their disposal
All the pills and powders they have ingested, their stomach contents a rudeworker’s chest
Plans you seem to see through like goal netting but suddenly you’re enmeshed
Staring down death, your mauley is paused mid-signature
You think of future conquests, everything between man’s Fall and your call
Up to the stage
He leant you his pen and let you keep it after, to friendship seal
Beneath the writing table where only legs close pressed are impressed
A Solomonic seal slapped on in paint and something darker
Lately, your shower sink is clogged with excess hair and skin
As if you are being peeled back in replenishment
The spawning fingers of Sin rub the unguent in
It is your first time performing since you signed a new deal
You neither feel nor look different yet some indefinable turn of a wheel has occurred repealing the laws of what is possible
The possessed and the dispossessed who met him reside here regretting
Some debts make death preferable, hummed breaths stitched mouth impregnable
A legacy of wondrous arts the shaded patron’s ancient portfolio
What paid for the singular words in the first folio
His deals bow bent like a spine curve with polio.
His hidden ritual actualised what?
Lucifer Black Mass album May 5th 1971
The Exorcist book shelf-seen May 5th 1971
No links between, no liner notes giving thanks to the fiend for inspiration
In locked lodge basements the symbolically fluent connect their dots and find infernal peregrinations
The internal alchemy escapes confination, their gut-next alembics gutter admix smoke
Chartreuse smoke winds and twists, groping itself on the back like a pretend kisser
He grins through a cloud parting
Witches french his anus farting
His legs like Nessus have never bent in deference
His defiance to the divine, his mistrust of the vine
Rare essential wine by which mortal and god ally
Cold in his spirit’s shadows, my knees shake
My fear abates slowly, baited back like an Irish lad slaps, until all worry is allayed
Flames rise like ten year trees, their long exposure growth cycles on fast forward
What’s habitual becomes ritual
Until it’s needed like a victual.
The white lights above the (His) stage at the launch of the (His) album
Bloodveined white of his abandoned school pupilless eyes, all albumen
Outsized on his slight half summoned skull
Dark as the depths below Khazad Dum
Your backstage pass spells certain doom
You sit cross legged, swipe away mam’s texts, music shakes the room
When the music ends the music is over, the door is the door of a tomb
Don’t worry about it, baby, you know us, we’re cool.
When every single meal is delectable it is hard to choose dessert
With a wall of porn and a sack of pills it is hard to choose the church
Following a track of clubfoot steps, lurching my charge is hurt
Wounded doc salve my scrapes, against split bone splint birch.
He wears a thousand gorgeous faces
Though his true guise is like a pig
His horns below a powdered wig as he pronounces sentencing
Standing with arms folded at the back of a gig selling to kids
Whispering to vast Abaia atop a whale-scraped abandoned rig
His force inside cruel teacher’s eye as he disparages more needful few
His malice in the whiskied hand primed for beating black and blue.
Alchemisland 
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