Hell Awaits my friends
Some words after listening to Slayer's Hell Awaits LP 35 years late.
no life possible, DOA at the engaging primeval ground where there could be Studio 54 moves of dark-thrash.
point zero and non-being raw dirty speed dynamics rippin' necks scripts on college-ruled yellow paper or blue books.
if I knew then what I know now about future tradition and tense silence and the death I would have pissed it out in bottles.
the no sacred but profane killing-melody-slayer-harmony provides imagery and eyes that burn.
deprived of light glistening wires ascend wrap-around drama going up in chunks and smoke.
density in hell's beat mood and pit sludge blood red codices and artifacts.
Jesus stomping on quicksand cohesive with the secrets of electricity.
an achievement of the heaviest anchor stuck inside the cave of despair and impurity.
non-commercial philosophy with a blade employing the barbarous spewing hate as denial.
all lyrics equal therefore unimportant except that slithery exorcist on-call.
higher command accepts no lifelines and all black arts enigmas.