Revels in the agora tell of one thing,
The arrival of the vaunted tinker,
He came far to our little town,
Partnered with a carriage holding such marvels,
A promenading carnival of cogs and brass,
A treat for the needy,
He could fix anything,
His craftsmanship bordering on sorcery,
To the wheels and pins he was royalty,
His golden hands commanded the broken shards to marry,
Clocks and pans were his pawns,
For a price in silver of course.
Wandering bewildered in a lawn maze,
I found this place,
By mistake or chance,
This verdant museum,
This garden of secrets,
Its emerald prizes did not come free,
The thorns acted an entry toll upon my arms,
But oh was it worth it,
Almost did I prostrate myself,
My eyes did bathe in supernal botany,
A wonderland without a red queen,
Trees holding up the firmament,
Flowers abound of every persuasion,
Little cardinals splaying to their solar deity,
The pristine lawn a parade ground of green,
Drilled by uniformed peacock life guards,
I could remain here forever,
Yet such divinity can only exist in folklore,
So I wrench open my eyes.
There are other worlds out there,
Alien and shadowy,
Full of miscreations,
Manticores and ghouls and chimeras,
Full of hunger,
Only a thin veil keeps them at bay,
A glass screen between the realms,
A blurry fortification,
A monochrome stained glass window we all push on,
Man doesn’t gently caress the wall,
Indeed man bashes against it incessantly,
Tempting fate and monsters,
As if galvanising our own slaughter,
Each crack in the veil is a dinner bell,
A welcoming call to the trough of this world.
There was a knight,
A man of foul tastes and fouler intentions,
Scorned by lords and radiant ladies,
A brutish giant of a man,
Fallen out of court favour,
Settling to escape from the disapproval,
This knight turned that scorn outward,
Turning to punishing the serfs,
A wandering tyrant,
Chivalry turned to banditry,
A wolf in iron clothing,
A kingslayer,
This was no Robin Hood,
But a plate mail monster,
No silver tongues,
Just silver daggers and silver morningstars,
Claiming to be a knight errant like any other,
But searching for vice over virtue,
Along with his merry band of cutthroats,
He revelled in flesh and loot and fury,
A plague on the realm,
A steel cyclone,
Tearing a scar of hate across the nation,
Until a feeble monarch deigned to act.
There are things out there,
Things older than Father Time,
Heretical creatures of eyes and tentacles,
Multitudes of alien flesh,
Designs impossible in nature,
Rejected by sunlight,
They regard the world as fodder,
To look upon them is to witness insanity manifest,
To combat them madness itself,
Simply ask the husks of their victims,
We’ve been told,
If it bleeds we can kill it,
But what if it doesn’t bleed?
What if it is of the stars?
An abomination of a god.
The day finds its demise,
Tossing and turning,
My rest is interrupted by eldritch fingers,
Emanating a foul energy,
Tentacles in my mind,
I dream of fathoms deep,
To airless environs,
Where even fish dare not venture,
Waters claimed by spectres and arcane chants,
Where the sun and sanity both drown,
Something stirs,
Eyeing the surface with a million oculi,
A million definitions of mad hunger,
Watching a world it seeks to extinguish,
A million maws curling into grins.
I have a torture chamber of my own making,
It rests within a cranial centre,
Containing all manner of devious racks and thumb screws,
My skull is the iron maiden it rests within,
Rusted spikes implied by self-esteem,
Nicking and piercing at cruel intervals,
I cannot escape this chamber,
It’s in my head,
I am tied soundly upon this breaking wheel,
Cracking my own limbs and jaw,
I can only scream internally though,
This torture is for me only,
In their masochistic inquisition,
My thoughts crank up the restriction upon this rack,
Foul ichor oozing from my gullet,
In the form of “I’m okay!”,
Lies brought forth through torture,
Cries for help in vile pools on the floor.
I slew this demon,
By my own rageful hand,
Within the swamp of a stuporous night,
To study its vile anatomy,
Work out why devils play the way they do,
This scalpel shall cut hotter,
Than any inferno of hell,
Such is my conviction,
I feel the arcana swirl about this cadaver,
This is the one,
As I make my initial incision,
A cloying ooze of sins drips out,
Infantile shrieks as it hits the floor,
Why continue to bear such filth?
I bottle it up for further inquisition,
Prepare the rib-spreader,
Let’s see this things core,
Stinking heat emanates like breath,
Yet only a void hides behind ribs,
These beings have no heart,
Saw the skull past the jagged horns,
Expose the mind of evil,
How does devilry conduct its plans?
The neurons pass only sick ideas betwixt,
It holds naught but the stench of malice,
So what have we learned?
Devils will always be devils,
Evil will always be evil,
It is intrinsic to their souls being,
It is proven,
If you witness malevolence within a man,
Just remember it is root and stem.
Listen here children,
Have you heard the tales?
Folklore of these trees,
That you wander amongst,
The trees that whisper one name,
A witch that lives here,
An ambiguous figure,
Baba Yaga,
You shall hear her approach child,
As chicken legs upon underbrush,
Her weathered hut astride,
Leaves shiver at her arrival,
Ferocious in her features,
Wielding a pestle,
And accompanied by a sorcerous mortar,
Greet her warmly child,
She can turn from helpful guide,
To child eater posthaste,
Don’t be rude child,
Wield your pleases and thank yous thick and fast,
She may impart such divine knowledge,
Or you may never leave her woods.
When asked to describe my dreams,
To understand my nightly process,
I flip a coin,
To judge which dreamland I last inhabited,
The misty nirvana of colour and vividity,
Or the dread hellscape,
The latter often wins,
Indeed it is the more trod upon,
A grey and harsh wasteland,
With gargantuan twisted spires of charcoal,
Echoes of an inferno,
A haven of abominations,
A dappled waste by any other measure,
The wind is a sad accordion,
Piercing cries always from great distance,
Aural mirages,
A perennial eclipse,
The crying stars are merely wisps,
Here I find my monsters,
Here I breed their evil,
Unfathomable muses that they are,
My quill is my baton to subdue them,
Their horror becomes my ink,
To carve my art into parchment,
Sometimes I bring the things back…
When I awake,
I gaze glossy-eyed out of my window,
As I tell my querier,
And I see a similar hellscape,
Replete with misery,
But perhaps more.
