The Fires of Frustration Deathspell Omega

Hear our voices, all of you, Men of resentment; whose stomachs and souls are aflame with the poisonous hatred of impotence; you whom have been wronged again and again; wiping your face clean, day after day, from the spit of those sitting unjustifiably above you

We will grant you freedom from freedom

We will burn and not explain, and this will feel ecstatic

As thou cometh unto us, we shall ease your sense of frustration and isolation: from your mouths will flow endless rivers of black bile, you will regurgitate the quintessence of failure and, in the depths of the night, feel the warmth of equity recovering your shivering body

Your longing for flames engulfing the desirable things of yore and the drowning of the successful in crimson oceans are tainted by the aching premonition that your marches to the cries of « all or
Nothing at all » will, of course, yield the latter for you

We are to arm and turn all of you into the expendable hounds of our Order

We will grant you freedom from freedom

Together, we will burn and not explain, and this will feel ecstatic

We will give you just enough of a taste of paradise to feed your insatisfaction and turn you into feral dogs. There’s a grave at the other end of this metanoia, a grave large enough for your former
And future self

O hound, feral dog, we shall grant you freedom from freedom, relief from frustration