The Familiar

You see this creature atop my shoulder?
This fiend of mana,
This decrepit homunculus,
This breathing effigy of a devil,
Neither feminine nor masculine,
Something akin to an insect blended with a raven,

Be not afraid,
For it is beholden to me,
It is my familiar,
My arcane assistant,
Summoned to support occult exertions,
Clutching my nape with bestial claws,

Its feral eyes help seeing mystical patterns,
Its hand able to weave magicks beyond mortal ken,
As abominable as this thing appears,
It was created to serve,
To aid,
A sorcerers best ally.

Ramirez

What turns a man into a demon?
What is it that breeds evil?
Is it a grim childhood?
The fists of the father,
Is it the occult?
A macabre interest too young,
Is it the narcotics?
That fun white powder,
An amalgamation of all these facets?

Whatsoever the cause,
This foul creature was unleashed,
A stalker in the night,
Dreaming of Disneyland,
Mutilating and violating all the way,
Thirteen souls claimed in red and screams,
By a devil wearing a human costume,
This horned beast was finally caught,
Brought low by his own arrogance.

Possession

I once spent an evening with an angel,
And heavenly she was,
Aside from some goetic tattoos here and about,
But something transpired,
A force took hold of her,

The conversation turned increasingly esoteric,
Her words became sulphuric heat,
Forked tongues in each breath,
Onyx veils covered her eyes,
Stifling any humanity,

Her face became a mask,
Contorted and almost pliable,
An unknown presence lay behind it,
A baneful weight,
A malevolence,

The air felt heavy in her presence,
Like breathing in spiteful ash,
I asked her what she was,
She grinned,
And those were no longer human fangs.

Fist Of Man

There is tell of a fallen angel,
Feathers replaced with horns,
Some epitome of spite,
And of this we are taught to fear,
Lauded as some ultimate enemy,
But I say different,

The devil is an amateur,
Way out of his infernal depth,
Ultimate evil sits in coffee shops and sips lattes,
A creature as studious as it is destructive,
Whose ingenuity has moulded countless systems of abuse,
It chokes the land not in lies but toxic waste,

The devil should just retire,
Last I checked we wore serpent skins,
Extinction is just in a days work,
Even Lucifer ought fear the mailed fist of man,
Both in location and scale of evil,
Humanity is punching down.

The Lyre

That lyre,
Apollos hand-me-down,
An instrument of antiquity,
That sound,
Each tone more shrill than the last,
Thundercracks across string,
I hate it,
I hate those aural pangs,

They scrape across my cranium,
Nails upon chalk,
Leaving invisible scars,
There is nothing divine about this sound,
No virtue from its turtle shell frame,
It is a miserable dirge of angst,
Plucked free by the fingers of demons,
Inflicting naught but malady.

Evil Eyes

After the sunsets warning,
The dark creeps up,
Nothing is radiant in the world,
Naught but the two lights I see,
Corpselights in the black,
Malevolence in twin lustre,
Eyes flittering a grim emerald,
I lock vision with them,

Silence,
Just silence,

The hairs upon my nape stand in awe,
I know not to which fiend they belong,
But I feel the heat of their ire,
Such hate in their illumination,
They pounce from brush to brush,
Denoting a predators process,
The night shifts just that bit colder,
I am fixed in their gaze,

Silence,
Just silence,

Then rapid claws upon broken twigs,
No more sound would be heard,
No more sunsets to be seen.

Shadow Man

The dark has a mind of its own,
The periphery does not lie,
There’s something there,
Exerting its will unseen,
It’s like a shadow person,
It has limbs of pure contorted blackness,
It pinches at your ears and thighs,
Supping upon your rapid heart,
Tentacles against table legs and wall skirts,
Those whispers are very real,
It tries to lead you further in to the night,
Tendrils ushering you onwards,
For nefarious ends perhaps,
Or some other mischief.

Shoulder Sins

Walking through these cold streets,
All I see is grey,
Save for the colours of demons,
Hovering behind human shoulders,
Feral spirits whispering into human ears,
Cupped hands beside unknowing brains,
Sweet nothings that feign sweetness,

One suggests taking that crones handbag,
Another sings the praises of broken windows,
Yet another gives you invitations to every speak-easy,
These invisible spectres suggest the worst of vices,
Pushing a dark narrative,
They are over all of our shoulders,
Wearing the shrouds of angels,

Whispering,
Whispering,
Suggesting.

Ifrit

Ifrit,
Fire given form,
Smoke and ash given intent,
Among the jinn he resides,
Among creatures of the hereafter,
Upon a searing wind of flame,
He comes to Mundus,
With broiling malice in his eyes,
Emanations of foul determination,

Ifrit,
He comes to spread misfortune,
His bestial form is scalding in its barbarism,
Horns and scorched auburn fur,
He comes to bring about an encompassing scorched earth,
But there is a defence,
Go to your Imam,
Chant your Du’a,
Chant if you hope to douse the fire,

To defeat him,
To defeat Ifrit.

The Pact

Do you remember thirteen years thus?
A bargain was made,
A pact you cannot break,
With a loan shark you can’t dupe,
An infernal contract,
Your soul for your hearts desire,
Seemingly an easy trade at the time,

The time has come to collect,
Your final sunset has passed,
The hounds come,
Obsidian pelt and garnet-eyed,
Slavering and tireless,
From the flames they come howling,
To tear from you a promised ember,

The hounds are here,
A flood of ghastly Baskervilles,
Do you hear them scraping at your door?
The scent of brimstone is palpable,
No amount of bargaining can lull them,
They are the devils own mongrels,
And they hunger for the flesh of a soul promised.