Music mangling is done in industrial gyrations
by Rammstein’s Death Metal. Teutonic spider-webs
blare the animal power of machines for ears of death.
Malevolent and misogynistic lyrics claim only death is real.
Leni Riefenstahl would be rolling over in her grave
if she heard Hitler’s fantasy is having a second act.
Tides of blood sweep across tombstones
standing guard over corpses with dead mouths.
Lost in a Gothic glaze of relentless musical fury,
it’s noise that deafens and numbs the sense of touch.
The pounding drums reflect the agony of prison rape
and the murderous exploitation of a fascist state
Grindcore and cyber metal’s blast beats
celebrate a flamboyant house of horrors—
666 is the address with a voodoo sign:
Satan’s at home seeking vengeance
caterwauling with a knife: Killing as I cum.
The cacophony of techno exposes
the bankruptcy of withered souls.
Touched metal cannot be felt,
death’s blood dries like dead leaves
falling on the vapid coldness of steel.
The young are old before their time—lifeless,
they may as well be sitting in a rocking chair
frittering away their lives, texting more and more
about less and less, living a life the color of air.
God scratches his head and wonders:
Where have all the human being gone?
Disciples of Death Metal have no fear of death—
unknowing how dead they already are.
Their music sucks the marrow out of one’s bones—
all that’s left is the smell of death in a rattling coffin.