David Murders

The priest shakes and twists on the altar like a mad drunk foxy lady as he hears the call of the devil that chants amongst the heads of the white rose Anglo-Saxon country congregation. They are burning inside in silence.
–Set the banks and the confessional boxes on fire, take your clothes off and throw them towards the flames. It is the warmth of damnation what shall clothe you up from now on. Jump over the fire in luxury and lay in animal lassitudes as the chants of the Lord reverb on the high temple’s vault –shout-whispers the priest.
–La negra echó en la cama y la blanca quedó observándola. Llevaba un tanga de panza de serpiente que se le ajustaba sujetando los lugares exquisitos; sabiéndose mirada, hacía gestos perezosos y jugaba con las sábanas. Estaba laxa pero excitada al relente del aire…–declames a boy reading a book.
Altars of madness. The congregation –a crazy mess of them– fucks and sucks as a thousand body monster, noising as pigs’ screaming and sheep bleating, and they speak all kind of speeches, filthy and loose, or scream madly in a silent shock trance. Their tongues slip in and out, and their eyes look like crazy while penetrating the core of everything they capture.
There is a woman that is telling a secret story to another one, and they are the two only people that keep still sat on the wooden bank; but the eyes of the one that speak-whispers already show the signs of depravation, while the other just keeps sitting still, thinking and thinking. But there’s nothing to think –nothing to think–, for as higher as she might think, she keeps on finding out there is a limit to her poor human capacity.

De TERRORIZER (Eclipsados, 2009).

Y eso.