Lullaby For The Antichrist – Non-Fiction

“What do men of the cloth do in their beds at night? Weep for their shrunken membership,” quoth the Lady.

“But surely they hope in tabernacles unveiled, in ribbed croziers and unspoiled flesh?” asked the little Antichrist.

“Their hearts inflame as for nothing else.” 

… And the clergymen sleep, biting their pillows, ass up for the dusty ejaculate of a false god.

“What evening oblations do the noble ladies perform?”

“They stare into crystalline mirrors,” quoth Lilith, “At their hair matted into fearsome sigils, laying hands on bone-dry breasts, their eyes screwed up and mouths agape.”

“But surely their beauty is stored up in heaven?” asked the incipient Son.

“They cover and cower and wish it were so. Speak to the manager.” 

… And the Karens sleep, their delicate orbs anointed with miracle creams, willing another day of splendid violence.

“What do the stinking wealthy do at night?”

“Hum to themselves a billion awful chant,” quoth the Mother of Shadows.

“But they must know they will dance aflame in a fortnight?” asked the Beast.

“They do and don’t, or don’t care, or not yet.” 

… And these few rest in artisan pools, singing to drown out a torrent of curses. “I deserve this,” they intone to themselves.

“Oh, you shall,” marketh the Demonic Mistress.

“What of the Unholy Whores, those dedicated to Father?”

“They will shine out with such radiance as none can imagine,” quoth the Infernal Goddess.

“But at what hour shall they reveal Satanic splendor?” asked the Antichrist.

“Verily soon, Thou Accursed, Glorious Child.” 

… And with legs spread wide, each night the Brides of Doom acclaim, “Ave Satanas!” in their beds and brothels and back alleys, beckoning the Antichrist to blaze in their loins —  Now bright, now awake!