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The night, by Max Beckmann
Robert L. Martin

Infernal Rivers

Rivers running wild from the infernal beast,
adrenal currents in the waters of the serpent,
baptism of the unholy one,
the birth of the rage of the wicked,
spume of the demonic disciples,
the black mountain tears running rampant
through unholy corridors,
adrenal currents of the deep
running down craggy cliffs, stony paths,
gathering up power and more power,
the powers of the sweetest taste,
the aroma of the gardens
driven by the electric winds of Gomorrah,
pleasuring the musty palate,
a force beyond all forces
luxuriating in the pools of the adrenalin,
the magic strength that came from hell
that surged through the electric veins
instilling thoughts of evil
to be acted upon and
spread throughout the world,
 
oh yes, the infernal rivers born from
the works of the beast that
instilled the thrill of empowerment,
the triumph of the evil over good,
to the hills and valleys they run.

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