The Sad Satanist

The Sad Satanist listens to his downtrodden black metal melody, deadening his pain with cannabis- scraping guacamole from a halved, misshapen skull. Neighbors heave their household wares at him as he carouses the walkways- their yard sale bought toaster ovens, their three-legged end tables- children break into his apartment at night, spray-paint '666' on his genitals as he rests. Reflections on a life of misery- the party clown that keeled over from infarction at his seventh birthday party- the arrest for pulling the plane's emergency hatch over the Atlantic, attempting to toss grandmother's ashes into the waters below. Screaming demon tattooed on right forearm- jet-black Mohawk spiked- clad in sheep leggings, beard growing up to his eyes. And as he ogles those bookshelves- filled with LaVey, with Crowley, writings on Gilles de Rais- the images of buxom black magicians on his walls- the painted pentagrams at his feet- the hides of deer, fox and horse, horns of elk and ram scattered about- he dreams of a normal life, one lived without the satyrs. Of Wednesday night whirlyball- of strolling the streets in a surgical mask. Propositioning fellows on the weekends- 'I need a guy for tonight- I freaky- nothing wrong.' Ogling pregnant joggers or the old men watching pigeons peck at chunks in a pool of vomit. Yet he knows this is all mere fantasy- for once one has witnessed the light of darkness, it is impossible to turn away.


- Dan Gleason