A Purr Verse, Raw Tale/Tail From The Crypt In Your Face, Safely

I love to torture you, ah, I want to see you suffer and hear you scream ah, I will watch it, I will not pity you, ah, I will take your life, I am the Marcheese de Sade! Yellow, R U yelling this at me?

Or am I whispering this purr version to your aroused ear writhing in masked ecstasy using my Byeble Belt on you not too literally, err, biblically, oops, epiphunnily? We are not spiritually satisfied unless we have Jesus in our lives. Or to be more blunt, we cannot survive physically without screaming Jesus. The reproach or disgrace associated with something hated.

Am I the brotherly Marquiz de Sade? The “Lord of the March”, a title used for nobility ranking higher than a baron or a count, but lower than a duke or a prince, a rank used for aristocrats who had land in more vulnerable border areas, like wetland, what, err, where you are. I M? Hi! Oh, then I have to congratunofuckinglayutions to you sis for all the spiritual pleasure I give you define as hard suffering and pain. Let’s call it surrealistically, a “Celustial Ride”, “D Cadencing Shrieks & Rasps”, a “Deca Dance”, shall we? Ah, such is Deadpool’s love, naked heart, pushed up your maditation sleeve.

Such R the ephemeral pleasures of my be quick or be dead flesh and the lovely slowgun that goes with it: “I LOAF U!!!!!!”. Whaww? Marquesa or Marcheese de Sade, you’ve never eaten bodily bread, like ever? Me neither!

Beeclaws breadough is XXXtremely harmful, short-lived, yet eternal, if served cold, like revenge. I dunno about you, but I want it hot. Aha, and you think you’re hot chocolate, and additionally d’licious? See? Bango, err, bingo, sea! Oh no, oh mow, oh blow, oh dough … yo!

Re-cumfirmed in the Byeble, breadough sinballizes various cumcepts including sustenance, God's provision, and spiritual nourishment. It also re-presents Jesus Christ, the "Bread of Life," and is a central ellament in the Last Supper, signifying His bo D. Breadough re-presents toget-her-mess, fellow-ship, and even sin or sincerity, D pending on wet-her you R leavened or unleavened. D aily breadough means in the Byeble dead, likewise, we take cumfort in no-wing that our physickal needs R met, dead we have feud, err, food, or “BreD,” for our deetail needs.

This Salva Door D Ali Marquiz de Sade rendition, err, petition of the Lord's Prayer, then, professionally itches us, err, prophetically teaches us to come to God in a spirit of humble D pen Dance, asking Him to provide what we knee D and to su-stain us from D ay 2 D ay, hey, bloody bloody hell, err, halo, oops hello. Hallow?

Decent peeps like you are fascinated to learn that Mr. Libor Soural, err, the Marquiz de Sade in person, or his descendant, or better yet ascendant, was not a fictional figure. Oh shit! All the touching shadow love letters and love songs show that Sade the man is way beyond romantic and sentimental, how he is a writing decent human being, too, “riting” all the wrongs exactly the right way, painting all the oddball shades of your enlightening soul in pain, even if you blue and yellow in black don’t believe it.

Hopeful, I’m not trying to kiss your loaded ass in your ham-bled, hum-bled, damn humbled bed, I wish I were, I’m desperately trying to spank you baby, to do you justice a la surrealism, appreciating your flesh! Salva Door D Ali explored the psychoanalytical concept of unconscious and subconscious desires as inspiration.

The more than once-disgraced Marquiz of Sadism/sadomasochism has become the whole world’s most decadent cult-aural hairo, a frenzied aristocratic libertine who is now hailed by many hairy heroes and heroines as a literary genius, great philosopher, and glowing martyr for freedom in the red dark.

Baby, did you know that many erotic Salva Door D Ali drawings are inspired by Sade’s novels we both are obsessed about, err, to make justice worldwide, making it bleed, getting it to suffer greatly and gloriously to the very end?

As a parting gesture, I’m drinking a bottle of Sade red wine named after one of the Marquiz’s most famous heroines, Justine, who suffers bloodcurdling abuse as she travels the world. Sade’s novel Justine: The Misfortunes of Virtue, goes far beyond Voltaire’s Candide in its desire to show humanity’s inherently evil nature, err, “vigilante justice”. Like we do, baby. Nevermind.

I know, not all the Juliette commentary on my “Liborature” eerily resembling Sade is flattering, to be sure. Though my work, not only my writing, may be a little too extreme, it’s work of total delusion, it’s extremely important to me. Sure, you don’t have to accept my sadomasochism deification, but my sex, err, Sixth Gospel books were written to justify my monstrous behaviours, all the sexual crimes we’ve ever committed or we will have committed, not so sadly.

Fifty Shades Darker 2.0? You don’t have to be the Marquiz de Sade to feel alive smearing and smelling the blood. Even terrified censors shudder at my authentic accounts of sexual violence as well as my vitriolic atheism, though I appear to be and actually am Mr. Nice Guy, bury bury bed-religious, relax and keep your crimson faith, baby.

To my/our “condition” admirers, Sade’s influence runs heart and deep. His/my novels of QUIZ are among the first with a thirst to explore the dark, hidden impulses of human nature, prefiguring Freud’s checked idea of the subconscious by a century. My/Sade’s influence has been enormous in every s-fear, err, sphere of Modernist art.

In his later “iceburn” work, checkered Freud used "unconscious" rather than "subconscious" to refer to the part of the screwed mind containing repressed thoughts, feelings, and memories that influence behaviours without conscious awareness. Makes us QUIZ, Marquiz & Marcheese.

Sigmund Fraud, err, Friend, oops, Freud was a Czech/Austrian neurologist and the founder of psychoanalysis, a clinical method for evaluating and treating path-o-log’s seen as originating from conflicts in the psyche, through dialogue between patient and psychoanalyst, and the distinctive theory of mind and human agency derived from it. Freud's raw model of the “fucked up” mind included the conscious, preconscious, and unconscious. The unconscious houses instincts, repressed desires, and memories, influencing behaviours even though we are not aware of them.

Our aim or claim, d pending on the angle of our unholy see/sea, as we are a fire, is to destroy every illusion surrounding human sexuality, be it hysterical, err, historical, moral or religious, which inspires/inspyres heartists/artists to look at the bloodied body in a new beautiful way. We play with the body, inside and out, showing it dominates by the horror horror gaze of the horrified viewer.

My delicate, feminine features belie my feral charisma? But I was already displaying a both terrible and terrific lack of self-control that made my esteem/steam locomotive behaviour extreme even by the standards of debauched you French aristocrat. And my sordid antics with prostitutes and lovers only seemed to escalate my libertine spirit? S-p-wit? Fuck, baby! U haul, I haul, a la Salva Door & Sade? Beeclaws Liborteen and libertine don’t even rhyme dead much. Yea ry.

What maniacal imagery, cum on, baby fuck or fuck baby? Feverish orgies, monstrous depredations repeated ad nauseam, rants against religion and authority of all kinds? Just because I relate the saga of 4 depraved aristocrats who imprison 28 teenage victims of both sexes, torturing and finally murdering their prey, Time 4 Crime? Is it the very Kryptor’s UR-text or IM-context of sadism and masochism, which most bondage critics agree is unreadable or unlistenable and totally borderline psychotic? Yea ry.

Cum on, the “Love Ease” book of mine, unlike yours, is not a cruel apology for every atrocity. True, if you read sex, err, six pages or chop-tours of my books I never presented here, you’d have to put it down, you wouldn’t/couldn’t take it anymore or any further with me, that’s why I never showed off that/dead much, lol. Either way, it doesn’t make any difference.

Everyone has an idea of sadism, I, err, you scream, referring to the painful term coined by the psychiatrist Richard von Krafft-Ebing in 1888, a never-ending love torture, oops. Are you hidden in the lust wall of my prison cell, or are you the DNA rampaging in my cells, causing all this both sad and joyful de Sade mayhem?

The Marquiz must have had excellent eyesight, as I the attendant am unraveling his pleasure opus, oops, mine, with you handing me a magnifying glass to dig deeper into my heart, since the scrawled sex, err, text is so minuscule it can be red, err, read only with sensual yet virtuous assistance, yours, Marcheese.

So I like/as Sade himself remain a powerful or powerless figure of fantasy, deepen ding dang dung dong on the decadent angle of our cosmic intercourse. Everybody knows me, yet nobody knows me, ebbing sadistically to sexual oblivion. But not every body knows you, knows your bo D, my capital punishment in lower case.

Nobody but me knows you. Dead much. But not. Therefore, this is a little reminder of my sexually romantic persona, err, personality still being alive, not dead much, ha ha.

No, I heaven’t been u-sing an improvised megaphone of hell to harangue the Subtract crowds, declaring that our inmates or insiders are being slaughtered, and begging for rescue, a sad, err, Sade provocation, lol, that does not endear me or you the warden. Yes, we have shed real tears of blood that seem so surreal, so funereal. Are you in ecstasy when you hear my heart-breaking Kryptor news, jumping up in the air like me, a goat, a messenger of darkness? No?

Which lives up to Sade’s boast that he produced the most impure tale that had ever been written. Well, which is not true anymore, because you have this Mr. Libor Soural and his fairy tail, err, tale, defeatneatelly not from the script, err, Crypt, who has made the poor Marquiz de Sade look like a bed joke fallen flat into a luxurious pool at one of his sordid hoe-mow-tells, no lol.

With characteristic Marquesa phrasing, he once demanded a chocolate cake from a cow that was as black “as the devil’s ass is blackened by smoke.”

Baby, would you believe that that dead Marquiz without his Marcheese imitated me, even back then in the real nightmare of my adult childhood?

Our surreal “Let’s go too bad!” slogan includes these 2 crucial phrases to our own survival, ‘It is Forbidden to Forbid,’ and ‘Do Whatever You Desire.’ So I suddenly understrained, err, understand that our revolutionary sat/sad/said phrases of “crimson loaf” like unconditional love are actually from hateful Sade. Fuck, baby, I had no idea rolling your combusted ass! Marcheese, that arrogant hateful woman! So arousing, D-serving on and off, filled with nothing butt hatre F, err, D, to me!

As a Nietzsche loser I find it in-porn-tantrum, err, important that in pre-revolutionary France, aristocratic males routinely evaded criminal charges because of their social status and wealth. What? I just thought I should point that out about the lascivious scumbeggar, err, scumbag Marquiz de Sade. Mayonesa, err, Marquesa.

Baby, you must hear the kind of unbrought charges against the Marquiz, the first scandal occurred when he was 23 with a dry thirst and locked a young prostitute in a less ordinary room and began stomping on a crucifix and screaming blasphemies, then demanding that she whip him with a cat-o’-nine-tails. Fuck, baby! And five years later, like it hadn’t been enough, can you imagine another of his appalling atrocities, he whipped a woman who didn’t wanna woo me and dripped hot wax on her back, the sick fuck! See, or better yet don’t, Sade’s real-life depravity was simply horrifying, immeasurebel. Yea ry.

The key to Sade’s erotic work, err, mine, I argue, is the author’s poignant longing to never be fuckgoddamn, err, forgotten, which only beecums more intense as the bury bury safe years in your prison dragged on into my early 50s. Baby, can you see that and how Sade wanted to become a fymouse riter, err, righter, oopsie, writer? He deliberately chose his sub Jack Ass, err, subject—sex and a pussy’s purr version, err, perversion, every pussyble, err, possible horror—so he could become immoral, whoops, immortal. The lunatic aspects are there, which is not our bondage case, what a sad relief. Beeclaws we are not even writers, we hardly scribble. And if so, then only on the toilet paper. Want an ample sample, of not scribing and beecumming fymous, or lack thereof?

After studying Sade for decades, I conclude as a non-decadent, a D cadence dancer, lmfao, the Marquiz was simply too appalling a character to spend time with. But as you red read more, your reaction may go from revulsion to compassion, must. Please? Since Sade languished for a third of his life in prison without standing trial. It’s, it was a terrible fate.

Sade had always fancied himself a writer, but until his imprisonment he had not produced anything but a few staid drafts of plays and a tedious travelogue about Italy. Now in confinement, surging with rage and frustration, he began to produce vast amounts of material, filling thousands of manuscript pages and completing drafts with lightning speed—in part to make money, lol, in part to embarrass his nemesis, his mother-in-law, as legal do-cum-ents suggest, rofl.

For long, see ya sad Sade, I’ve always felt great sympathy for the sad bastard Sade. The sexual beast was mostly persecuted only for his semi-innocent writings that were suffering enormously, like all of our manuscripts, horror horror, err, goreah goreah! He did exactly what he wanted to do, just like me, and you, oops? Imagine, baby, calling his WiFi “celestial kitten” and “fresh pork of my thoughts”! WTF!!!?? WTD, err, What The Decadance, MAM!

Baby, I don’t call you that, yet, not yet, dead! And he de-scribed his WiFi’s ass as “the sweetest ass ever to leave Switzerland.” WTSwiss cheese or chocolate, Marquesa!? It was here that Sade committed one of his most disturbing and heinous crimes: Five young females and one male were trapped in the château for sex, err, six weeks of weak depredations, orchestrated in strong theatrical fashion by Sade under the indulgent eyes of his WiFi, whipping the victims gently. There were no gallons of blood spilled, allegedly. Aww!

Frankly, I wouldn’t like to examine Sade’s skull to know the truth, because phrenologists believed that the shape of a skull revealed traits such as criminality, artistic genius, saintliness, and insanity. Wait, can I see your skull, err, skill, a pure purr version, whoops? Ah, that Salva Door pussy man in me, sigh, nostalgically.

There’s no doubt that the sad dude was a licentious man with violent tendencies, like Emperor Nero, Artist or Antichrist?, fymous, fymouth for his personal debaucheries and loud extravagances, whose lust, err, last words were presumed to be, "What an artist dies in me!", rofl!

I deduce, the Marquiz de Sade was definitely the kind of Mr. Nice Guy who loved to make his muffled debauchery bloody with a rose. Men with similar brain organizations will go so far as to kill the object of their lust in a bloody rage, dismembering it, the surreal female element, Salva Door D Ali rumours have it. Subjectively, I dunno, about this “Angel of the Shadows”. Do you, Marcheese?

Me thinks we could star in pornographic films of the enslaved porn industry and still be freed activists for sexual feedome, err, freedom. Sade’s sad philosophy is very powerful, but the cheerful SOB is no Nietzsche, thrust me, err, trust me! Yea ry, there was once a glowrious time to fight for Sade and against the censorship loves, err, laws, but that time has passed.

We must still be able to criticize the sadomasochistic genius. Ah baby, I’m so glad and grateful that you don’t see me as virulently misogynistic as the jailed sad dude of French decadance Czeched in and Czeched out, upside down and inside out, ouch, my brains, that there are not even the slightest similarities or exactitudes with me, Marquesa.

FYI, XXXactitude implies the lowest quality of being accurate and precise, or the actual state of being exact. It's a formal term often used to D-S-cribe the highest degree of accuracy and correctness in an off measurement, calculation, or any other decoded process where meticulous attention to deetail is required by farce, err, force, oops, faults, fucket, err, forget about rape, baby!

Today, Sade is a powerhouse cockold, err, household name all around the world. Even metal groups use it or its stinging/stinking essence/theme throughout their work. The greatest example is Czech Kryptor, whose musical output is permeated with his legacy, a bootleg of the Marquiz de Sade. And the Marquiz SOB made sure that nothing written about sex would surpass him and his Marcheese, yea ry.

So Fifty Shades of Grey, in this sadomasochistick saviour sense, is a nursery fook, err, book compared to Sade, yea ry. My multiple sex adventures of 35 endless years also pale to Sade’s, I’m nut boasting, Marquesa, yea, ry. What? Which makes me an instant legend among the world’s connoisseurs of sad erotica, ha? OMFG! Err, omf sad Sade, yea ry. Ra ra …

That I am a purr verse, raw tail/tale from the crypt in your face, safely? Beeing in the bloody script of the Marquiz de Sade is the sayfeast, err, sex fest, I mean safest place to be, just like in love with you, baby, where I can never get hurt, whirled, pearled, unfurled, Marcheese. OUCH, FUCK!

True, I tried to grow up on this purr verse, raw, sadistic, genocidal Checko metool band Kryptor, you know, wonderfool 90’s. Foertunately, I failed, I never made it, my fryend, lol.

Tales from the Crypt? A premium fricking Amaricunt “horror horror” WTF anthology television series, err, WTD, What The Decadance, that ran for incredible 7 seasons, not 8, lol! I wouldn’t want to consume that pathetic TV product junk even if they paid me 2 gran D iose, ha ha.

I remember how I annoyed (you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!!!) looked down on it 35 years ago, how I protested in an outrageously silly way, too, mocking it as well, that if anybody wanted to get scared or haired or get the real craps, err, creeps, they should have peeped into my “cool” Homer lifestyle with Marge at the time, hell, sweet detention center, to get more than a million percent horrified than digging the sad sorry ass of Sade, lol.

Marguis De Sade (Marquis De Sade)

Here I rule with my cruelty

no one will know about my depravity, it’s the only way that leads here, not back

no one will notice your disappearance.

Frenzied perversion, raging sadism, the sight of your blood causes me adaptable orgasm

I will torture you, I have my methods, you are dying, life is not born.

I feel the slap of the whip as it swings into your back

that is the sweet sound I love to hear

you writhe in pain and call for help, but it never comes.

Instead you will know what makes me happy

I can never get enough of your blood and pain

you fix your eyes on me with horror and fear

you see the dagger, now you know you are dying.

I am the Marquis de Sade, I torture you, I love to torture you, I want to see you suffer

And hear you scream, I will watch it, I will not pity you, I will take your life, I am the Marquis de Sade!

Your suffering is a pleasure for me

The sight of your blood excites me greatly

When sharp steel penetrates your body

Your screams and moans suddenly cease.

At this moment my body trembles with pleasure

The pleasure carries me away, it warms me inside

You were so young, beautiful and innocent

Now your young life is slowly fading away.

Padesátý v Řadě (Genocida I) (The 50th in Line (Genocide I))

The day drips into the empty eye sockets and burns

my eyes on the palm of my hand have long since died down.

Perhaps they were still laughing with their pupils, but the tears no longer flowed down my face.

In my row, a woman went crazy: "It's burning!", but the scream stuck in the dead air.

"Throw the body soaked in blood on the stake!" her scream still stung our ears.

The woman, maddened by the horror of that slaughter, fell to the ground without a voice, suffocated.

The mad stomping of the blind man, who wailed and twisted his legs

like a stunned sheep, a run after him and a dead moment of silence

then a dull fall when the hunter's knife flashed. "He's already saved!"

I said to the darkness, "When will it reach me?"

at that moment I didn't notice that we were being taken to the pit.

Through my tears, I felt like I was in a deep pit, fresh from yesterday.

I strained my ears and waited for the first blow, when the first victim of the atrocity would fall to the bottom of the pit.

With my swollen ear, I carefully caught the data, who had already fallen behind, who in front

I added and subtracted and the counting of the falls continued.

With my precise senses, I wanted to count the dead, one by one, I was the fiftieth in line. My hearing, instead of my sight, communicated all this

and the flash of the sun on the blade. That terrible light still hurts me today. Lightning and dawn will not overshadow it.

The light of life, as if I had shed fiery tears, I feel them even now and the howls of the tortured have melted into one madness, one hell.

Zjevení zapomenuté minulosti (The Apparition Of A Forgotten Past)

Deep inside you is your other face reflected in Death’s eyes, is it the morbid bloody truth

murders, wars, executions, the works of your past, you laughed at the wailing of the victims

you reveled in their death. Stop counting the thousands of funerals you caused

when every night they follow you into the world of your dreams

quartered bodies of bestial murders surround you, memories of the past command your spirit

When you return to somewhere, wherever you have been before

you know that here too you have sinned, shed a sea of ​​blood you perceive around you

even after years, the suffering of others, even without witnesses, the truth has caught up with you

now pay for your crimes. You cannot escape it when it surrounds you everywhere

the conscience of a sinful murderer haunts you, dreams turn into nightmares, terrifying rage

You believe that only your death is the only redemption. The apparition of a long-forgotten past

Now after years it cruelly pursues you. It shakes you, holds you in its power

You have nowhere to hide from your conscience

The past comes back to you and you no longer want to live

The demons inside will not give you peace. In despair you scream for help but you are not heard

You will be thrown into the maw of purgatory. It is all over and smoke rolls over your ashes

The air is saturated with the greasy stench of black soot

However, your sinful past is not buried. Eternal peace your evil soul has not found yet.

Screams in the depths of the dark night. Cold sweat breaks out on your forehead

Lost in the whirlwind of time. You do not know where you really are. There is nowhere to hide from your own past

Kryptor - Beyond Darkness

Genocida II (Genocide II)

The world is my light and darkness, they tore away the sweetness of the nights with their eyes

I am only a brain bursting in fire, a bloody pupil in that brain glowing.

The last light before my night was the flashes of the knife

and the white sparks at the tip just as my scream was white

even in blindness the bodies of the executioners were also shiny with sweat.

They were half naked on one side, so that they could kill quickly and without fatigue.

I don't know how long they have been killing

my empty sockets were rapidly swelling with puss and yet hard as lead bullets

and in my palms, empty eyes were cold and glassy. I whispered, people, how hard it is for us

how can I cry for you now, when I don't even have tears?

Only blood dripped through my fingers, warm red and thick - hungover from blood

the executioners continued to kill, and a river of blood flowed

and he already knew how to stab me with his knife.

I now weighed the painful price of blood, I felt nothing

I did not notice the graves around me

I only moistened myself in blood as if in tears, and the dead faints closed over me.

To Se Nemělo Stát (That Shouldn't Have Happened)

No, that shouldn't have happened, they shouldn't have done that to me.

In the holy crypt they buried me. Yes, I was a priest, I preached for those, for those who believed in me.

But I, a messenger of darkness, a coal smoldering in the fire, I dazzled human sight.

So that I could have gold carriages and space for spells my soul now belongs to you.

No, that shouldn't have happened, they shouldn't have done that to me.

In the holy crypt they buried me, that I don’t live anymore, they thought, they were damn wrong

My body lies stiff, no weight of the flesh and bones, but my soul lives on

No, that shouldn't have happened, they shouldn't have done that to me.

No, that shouldn't have happened, they shouldn't have done that to me.

In the holy crypt they buried me, that I don’t live anymore, they thought

No, that shouldn't have happened

Maskované stíny (Masked Shadows)

Some have strong words
and tempt their fate
do not recognize the danger
self-confidence grows.
Glass eyes, hands without feeling
the steering wheel is grabbed
from riders who disappear into the distance
many will never return.

Risk and threat
from the opposite direction of the road
then suddenly face to face
feels the fierce heat of flames.
Foggy brain, alcohol level, too high
does not control the steering
innocents die
no one learns.

Masked shadows
vague visions
fractions of a second
silhouettes grimace in the curves.
Light and darkness
merge into one
bottomless mystery
the engine suddenly falls silent
at full speed.

Klášterní Tajemství (Monastery Secret)

In the monastery, nuns live their whole lives without a man
who knows what they're doing when they lie down in bed at night
are these girls as chaste as they pretend
why are they sleepless every morning?
They manage to maintain their virtue on the outside
but in the meantime, it's often damp on the altar
don't these maids know God's pleasure

don't nuns fuck all their lives?

No one will ever see
such an erotic scene
of nuns
being properly horny
the veil of darkness is shrouded
monastery secrets.

The nun is supposedly getting used to life without a tail
so what is this darkness from the chambers sighing so loudly
what is going on behind the monastery walls
when every nun supposedly just sleeps at night.
A cucumber or a candle or a bicycle without a saddle
is nothing that no one would like to introduce
on a night when many people enjoy wet dreams
in a monastery under the cover of darkness, terrible things happen.

Vládci (The Rulers)

In the jungle of today's age, power rules
the fight against evil must begin now
drugs, crime, war, terror
the idol of money has taken over the world.
In third world countries, people are starving
famine, the paradox of our century
profit is more important than human life
a disgrace to the entire human race.
The rulers don't want to care about anything
hidden in palaces they pretend to be blind
the rulers don't care about it
their careers are more important to them.
Tyrants who don't bother with anything
human life is worth shit to them
in palaces they are indifferent to it all
it's a mistake that will knock their heads off.
The rulers don't want to care about anything
pampered in luxury they pretend to be deaf
the rulers don't care about anything
political power is more important to them.

Neznámý Vojín (Unknown Soldier)

He doesn't have time to lie under the sod and wait in the grave for the orators
to stutter out thanks during the fanfare - he should have gotten up and gone long ago!
As long as he is at war, he must get up
and fall again like yesterday
for the glory of the empire, the majesty of God
for the emperor, the king, the pope, for Hitler.
Or for the drug mafia bosses
even if he doesn't know who is behind it all
he only knows that dying is the job
of the unknown soldiers of all times.

He goes from century to century
and as if he had long ago forgotten
how many widows and children he has
and how many of his own bodies he has already buried.
They massacred him in Stalingrad
they cut him to pieces at Austerlitz
he coughed up his lungs at Ypres
and had to get up and enlist again!

There is never a mention of him in history books
the unknown soldiers
remain nameless.
They don't give interviews
at most, they wave their shot hand
and they roll a cigarette from a newspaper
with a photo of a victorious general
and smoke it even though he is headless
an unknown soldier survives on a small amount.

But it's getting to him
to drag his fate in his backpack like a dumbbell
he would really like to know how many times
he has to fall and get up again
before he lies down to rest once and for all!

Zvěrstva (Atrocities)

In desperation when the desire for a dose grows stronger

you intend to undergo torture and postpone your torment

the most depraved instincts, shameful satisfaction scars on the body and soul that time will not heal.

For a moment of your own pleasure, a few minutes of colored nails, you want to destroy even the ruins of pride you have left

you don't know what awaits you, they didn't tell you that it threatens the most perverse abomination

you will give your life for someone else's pleasure.

The perverse satisfaction of perverts may be your blood and their fallen lusts

morbid business with illegal pornography. Snuff!

Atrocities that no law will break. Unprecedented footage without tricks, this scenario is being filmed in full

you are the star in the lead role, fifteen minutes of fame, for the first and last time!

Pedophilic necrosadism, plebophilic abortion, psychosexual excitement, their demand is rising.

Justiční "Omyl" (Judicial Error)

The death sentence will be carried out.
You are sitting on a chair, strapped down.
A steel hammer is pounding on your head,
Behind the window of the gas chamber the executioner is smiling.
The eyes of the witnesses are screaming: "Hold your breath!"
Fight to the end of your strength!,
Your faith in life has been broken in you by a miscarriage of justice.
Hold your breath And another sentence will be carried out,
You are sitting on a stake as if chained.
The executioner is putting a helmet of death on your head,
The current will crush you on the wires.
The eyes of the witnesses are screaming, "There must be a short circuit".
Fight to the end of your strength.
Your faith in life has been broken in you by a miscarriage of justice.
There must be a short circuit
The judge is reading the death sentence,
Only I am left.
My hand falls on his face,
I have nothing to lose, my strength is tearing him apart.
The eyes of the witnesses scream: "The judge is a murderer!",
I fight to the end of my strength,
He broke my faith in life
This is not a mistake! The judge is a murderer!

Maniak (Maniac Fucker)

They ride, they ride, Hells’ Angels through Prague

the roar of heavy engines rumbles through the darkness

on the machines chrome shines, in their hands chains, whizz.

An unsuspecting young couple put their brats to bed, wait until the children are sleeping soundly

then they go into the bathtub to fuck furiously.

When our lovebirds are in ecstasy, a murderer with an evil idea enters the bathroom

she tried to defend herself with a boiling shower, but the criminal shot their bodies dead with a pistol.

The foam turned red, blood, but the perpetrator disappears into the distance

he left the apartment and the little robots in the crib crying, oh, alas, what's wrong with us orphans... Maniac!

Some old woman went to the doctor with urine, there she suddenly sees a gangster on his heavy motorcycle

and then he is only writhing in blood under the wheels of his own Harley

the frightened crowd from the crime scene is shaking. Maniac!

Why have I been so fucking mad rabbit Marquiz de Sade? Do you really wanna know, baby? Beeclaws I went to Salva Door D Ali’s museum in Barcelona with somebody else, 33 years ago! You were just a BABY GIRL. And he didn’t save me, motherfucker! I just fucking hate it when you hurt, hey!

Over time, sadly, baby, we have become ephemeral, all the massacre of Marquiz & Marquesa de Sade, we have acquired hard/heart connotations of passing time, fragility, change, disappearance, transformation, and the philosophically ultimate vision/division of our own existence. Nopee, we can’t quit polishing the buttcherry, the carnage must be smooth and shiny 4EVA. Don’t Eden think about it, baby! Ah, such is our online/offline odd love life …

Marquesa or Marcheese is a dairy pro-duck-d made from coag-u-lay-ted milk pro-teens, typically hate sin, err, casein. It cums in a wide varioty of flavours, sextures, and forms. Marcheese, fuck, baby, is a good sauce of cal-sea-um and pro-teen, but can also be hell, a black metal band I like jailing us truly sadomasochistically, um, hailing from Norway. Err, hello, not goodbye, high in saturated bed fats and odium, err, s-odium, oops, sodium.