The Cenobites


I am a goddamn Butterball Cenobite
My repulsive glamour is a
Piano riff with anti-club posters
Wheat pasted all over the TL

I am a super-butcher, as in
A franchise with no overt reference
My attributes are a Roland 303
And leather garments gushing blood

We all have horrific mutilations
Manifested in the tools we carry
As devoted followers more than
20,000 attended during the weekend

This is the Western concept for former humans
Just a rotating lozenge with patterns
Of Lemachand’s box on its panels
Until the crowd responds favorably

For many decades this diamond
Was a card suit until Club Burn It Up
Became a lithograph able to summon
Chains from nearby shadows

I was made with a pneumatic eye
That can impale targets, and so forth
That smiley yellow face, that vapid
Anonymous smile exhibits an amoral
Personality levitating above its butchery

While we were listening to this music
We thought of exposing areas of flesh
Where some kind of torture has,
Or is occurring, all the unlicensed clubs
Turned on the scene, this was an extremely
Painful point of sensory overload