As Our Gods Command

Ye who hang parasite o'er the oak of kin, pruning out its world-wide boughs with sun-robbing shadow, ye mistletoes of mind, darts stealing light from shining, wondrous Baldur, ye kin of Claudius pouring poison in the ears of king and kingdom, corroding out the flesh of commonwealth and replacing with the emblem of your lord and saviour Loki : strife. For you set all asunder, making foes of could-and-would-be friends, turn cracks and crazes to gulfs, rob eyes of wide-open beauty in auto-uglification of world through your own retarded lack of imagination separating same from other in the subfascist quarantine of your racist, trollish minds. And you are the trolls. And you are the ogres. And you are the deformed, cloudy-minded fools made orc through your own dehumanization. For that human cup, so brim with broad flavor, you, O orc-worshipping denizens of shadow, refuse, spilling out mead and smuggling in venom. Venom, venom, to eat out eyes and gnaw the hearts of ears, with ugly, false delusions of smoke-and-vapor lines of small-minded separations. Celebrants of the subhuman, clone-junkies incest-seeking same and same against the different, you are the trolls, you are the ogres, you are the ugly, heartless orcs casting shame on every act of worship you sully. And my rage is Mjollnir, for I shall shut thee up, thy worthless sons of Loki seeing only through eyes of strife ; and I shall grind you to dust and feed your Gods'-gift-spat-upon with spite and cursed darkenment as roots-manure for the all-embracing tree of full relation. For I am kin, you see, to all, and your less-than-fully-human eyes need light from ones such as me, for we the noble tire of your unworthed encroachment on our most and holy sites. If ye try to twain me from my brethren, full brethren, brethren of world and full beyond, then, devotee of strife, receive thy full reward at Mjollnir's mallet, and then be bound, thy noxious Loki-spirit down in Nastrond here with serpents seek your fellows to find, above your worthless master. For your ill-tamed rage and wrath against the weave of braided difference sets your hearts a lowly thrall to wretched nidings. You are disgrace, you are stain, you are sully set to spoil all the good the Gods intend, but, troll's thrall, you shall fail. Turn back now and beg the Gods' forgiveness, if you wish at all their blessings, for their boons are beauty, long art-crafted o'er the ages to awaken and enlighten, and those who shut the eyes of soul and cut short the long arm of love, so that minds melt into narrow alleys of blind, fathoms short of beauty, there to languish -- you set your unholy claws upon the gifts of the Gods, and sure as day shall follow night, for your sacrilege you shall be judged. Set back not the clock of wit and 'ware's advancement, for we are outseekers, embracers of exotic, blending minds and genes with many -- as our Gods command.