by Nick Gisburne
A sludge of souls, a rancid, boiling broth,
The lost, like sightless, sick, insipid sperm,
Are carried by the currents of His wrath,
Each spineless slave a pale, pathetic worm.
The septic filth in which their spirits scream,
The shit and vomit, piss and blood and bile,
Convulses, belching black, satanic steam,
To mock the gods the drowning, damned, defile.
He drinks of it. His pleasure is to feed,
To taste the taint of cold, refreshing fear.
Condemned, consumed, the worthless burst and bleed,
Polluting each infected smile and sneer.
Exulting in the slurry and the scum,
He feasts upon the fools they have become.
