Feeling a touch nonsensical today,
Feeling a dash ridiculous,
My mind is scarlet jelly,
These thoughts are hundreds and thousands,
Once lost which way does a page turn?
Can a cookie become a chef?
Does winter prevail in many competitions?
Can a merchant learn to sale a ship?
Does my coffee need some medicine?
Can a mansion ever be a lady?
Random thoughts dart about,
I know I’m not making any sense,
But did I ever?
The mind is a prison,
Shackles and all,
All your ideas are kept there,
All your machinations are bound there,
Your minds eye is temporarily blindfolded,
Upon request these treasures are released,
Creations given wing,
On to page and stage,
To captivate and terrify,
To enlighten and appall,
But something has designs on these gems,
Writers block,
The plague of the author and artist,
A malady so harrowing,
So abominable,
So soul-crushing,
Now my mind is blocked,
The affliction comes for me,
It’s an unwanted guard to my prison,
Authorizing no creative release,
Me and my psyche are in solitary,
Will we ever be released?
A continuation of ‘Festival Of Blood‘.
I was a bad man in life,
A nightmare in a mask,
Bringing luscious bloody release to innocents,
Before my festival of gore was cut short by firing squad,
But I’m back,
I claws my way out of hell,
But something followed me,
Something wants to drag me back,
Drag me back with fang and claw,
This infernal dread has a name,
Cerberus,
A real bad doggy,
A mass of muscle and maw,
Dark as the night,
And far more foreboding,
Three canine heads of such freakishness,
A trichotomy of insatiable mouths,
Slavering with the essence of hell-fire,
I am prey now,
A target for this unholy behemoth,
This guard dog of the underworld,
Its eyes seethe with crimson voracity,
It will hunt me for all eternity,
I can only flee,
I was a serial killer,
An apex predator,
But now me and my soul are just panicky prey.
I have a problem,
I seem to be lacking in power recently,
I’ve never really been pushed,
I’ve never been overcharged,
I’ve never been struck by lightning,
My consciousness lacks a certain electricity,
No power,
No motivation,
No current,
No ambition,
No voltage,
No impetus,
Do I need an electrician?
A new battery?
A new transistor?
A heart-shaped motor?
An inspirational amplifier?
Does my negative have no positive?
Why do I have no power?
Does my meter need some change?
He’s coming for me,
Even the storm outside does not cloak his steps,
Mr. Ash,
The frigid wind tries to hold him back in vain,
The rain whispers “flee”,
Each stroke of lightning is a plea of “run!”,
My attempts at going underground failed,
My thieving insult to him will be repaid in blood,
I glance out of the window fearfully,
I see him nearing even in the black,
It’s like staring into evil itself,
It’s like looking at the apocalypse in slow motion,
A demon,
A God,
Or something altogether more alien,
Long spindly limbs,
Pale and hairless,
He is dressed literally to kill,
His emaciated limbs bear barbarous claws,
Claws that have ended lives since time began,
And perhaps even before,
His mad eyes are wide open,
His grin filled with murderous intent,
He’s coming for me,
His form appeared at my door,
That grin still glistening,
Despite the horror that was about to ensue,
His rangy form must nearly crouch,
But I still feel like a frightened child,
The monster under the bed is real,
Even the bravest slink in terror,
And fear the name of Mr. Ash,
Even the maddest see reason,
And fear the name of Mr. Ash,
Even as my body is torn limb from limb,
The storm continues unabated.
I gaze upon the moon each night,
I sit in the dark,
Staring skyward,
My eyes reach out,
They can’t reach her,
They’re not worthy.
Crescent full or gibbous,
Her dazzling form lights up the dark,
An astral goddess,
An empowering icon,
A source of inspiration,
Playing kiss-chase with the clouds.
So why do I see a second moon beside me each night?
And beside me each day?
A moon of such astronomical beauty,
That it blots out even the lunar goddess,
Earthly yet still heavenly,
A goddess of a different kind.
Then I realize,
You are my second moon,
Superior in every way.
The accordion plays on and on,
Its player masked and humbly attired,
An apocalyptic accordionist,
Tight-lipped and stoic,
Longing for the end of all things.
On and on,
The world falls apart,
Flames jig to the tune,
The land quakes to each note,
Civilization gives a final emphatic applause.
The world moves to an inaudible drum beat,
Waiting for its execution,
The noose tightened,
And the guillotine lifted,
An accordion at the end of the world.
Each keystroke is a crescendo,
Each scale is a finale,
And each note is a curtain call,
An Armageddon,
So the accordion may cease playing.
The end comes,
The accordion plays on.
My candles breathed their last,
I decided to take a walk with the full moon,
A dark shape crossed my path,
An unnerving smirk upon its countenance,
Disconcerting yet darkly welcoming,
Fangs glistening like daggers in the moonlight.
A mad grin,
An infectious grin,
Piercing eyes,
Unblinking eyes,
An obfuscated form,
Even more obscure intentions.
He greeted me warmly,
Every sentence punctuated with a giggle,
He explained his way of life,
To laugh was to live,
All else was misery he said,
Life and death were simply gags.
His laughter spoke to me,
Like friendly advice I could not ignore,
Each cackle was a poem,
Every chuckle a sonnet,
Each chortle was a well-formed argument,
It told me of things wonderful and unseen.
His laughter seduced me,
It revitalized me like a shot of adrenaline,
Like a lifestyle I’d shamefully missed
His guffawing opened a gateway,
An expression of joy in three syllables,
Ha. Ha. Ha.
I almost joined him in his nocturnal comedy,
But then I saw the corpse crumpled behind him,
A bloody beam carved across her face.
His grin vanished…
After months of planning,
The sea lion begins its attack,
Teeth bared,
A black cap upon its head,
And an iron cross on its breast,
Its minions swarm overhead,
Ready to drop hell upon the Isle.
Who can stave off the sea lions bite?
Men of the Isle,
Exiles from the east,
And allies from the west,
The bravest of pilots,
The Few.
They take to the heavens,
In their seraphs of war,
Raging Hurricanes,
And surging Spitfires,
Aces against the storm.
Remember their heroism,
303rd, 401st and 312nd,
Remember their names,
11th, 74th and 609th,
Brothers and comrades,
The Few.
The Battle of Britain calls,
This will be their finest hour.
The puppet sleeps soundly,
He smiles in his sleep,
Dreaming endlessly of a life unfulfilled,
A pointless life,
An empty life.
He dreams of paying obscene taxes,
He has notions of amounting to nothing,
He fantasizes about voting for tyrants,
He dreams of a dead-end job,
His life is not his own.
He has nightmares of a better life,
Nightmares of relaxation,
Nightmares of aspiring for more,
Nightmares of finding romance,
His life is that of a manikin.
His strings wait calmly,
Waiting for a new day,
A new dance,
A new missed chance,
A day closer to the rubbish heap.
And then he awakens,
This puppet is not made of wood,
But of flesh and bone,
His puppeteer is no entertainer,
But a society that doesn’t truly care.
Then the puppet puts on his suit,
And goes to work.
