A black coated priest is sitting on a gray velvet armchair.
A white goat is standing beside him, its fur being strucked by his wrinkled left hand.
The room is dark and narrow, no windows, no light.
As he starts to speak, no voice comes out from his mouth. His words are swarms of locusts.
The panic grips my guts.
The humming is unbeareable.
It eats and corrodes flesh and bones, sucks blood out of veins and deadens every limb.
Like an envenomed anesthetic.
It’s bitter, a neverending pounding on my gray matter.
Ceaseless, tireless, uncompromised.
Exploring, sickening, devastating, it decimates. Without any plan, without any reason’s support.
It is VIOLENCE. It is EXTREMISM.
And now the locusts flow down my gullet, they fill every hole in my body, they eat my eyes.
I can’t see, I can’t speak, I can’t hear nothing but that fucking humming drone. I can’t even breathe no more.
Then I suddenly wake up, realizing that sleeping while listening to PENTEMPLE can really feel like a plague…
Oh, shit!! What’s that menacing bug on my bed?!
-Marco Guerra Avitabile
01 – Pazuzu I
02 – Pazuzu II