Posts Tagged ‘Fiction’

While you dream softly,
They watch over your home,
Across the stars,

Gods of combat,
Gods of bullet and blade,
Frames of war,

The Tenno,
A name feared by evil,
Sent forth by a cosmic mother,

Knights of the system,
Stalwart against imperial tyranny,
And ancient horrors,

Her will be done.

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Hello inmates.

I haven’t done one of these in a rather long time. Not since 2014! I’m not sure why, I suppose it simply never really came up. Maybe I haven’t been reminiscing as much recently. Anyway, I quite liked the idea of it before, So I’ve decided to make another with some of my older poems in it. It seemed apt with the new year looming in the horizon. Mayhap a little self-indulgent, but I don’t want my older poems to be forgotten. So, I would encourage any newer inmates to take a gander, You might see something you like!

The Clockwork Dragon – A tale of a frightening mechanical nightmare.
Internal Hydra – A poem, or perhaps an introspection, on humanity’s inner monster.
Red Stamp – An experimental poem about the horrors of fascism.
Night Sky – A poem about my adoration of the night.
Shotgun Romance – A twisted poem about love.
Sorcery – A poem about the magic of our own potential.
Beast of Eyes – A story of an otherworldly being.
Dirge of the Jester – One of my few forays into rhyme.

So there we have it. Just my personal picks from my archives. Every piece of writing I create is important to me, so I’d appreciate it immensely if you would let me know what you think. Here’s hoping that you won’t regret having a read.

On a side note, I hope you’ve been enjoying my more recent works! I’ve been getting back into the routine of writing daily, and I’ve been feeling so much better for it. Thanks to every one of you who takes the time to visit the asylum!

Until next time, have a very crazy day inmates!

Death is my lord,
I am his reaper,
And his scythe,
My blade is his,
I am the Manhunter,

This long coat hides a herald of death,
He pays in cold coin,
And I pay in cold dead eyes,
Those whose time has come,
Those whom have his icy hand upon their shoulder,

My life was already taken,
Eons ago,
A bloody wedding gown and an empty crib,
Death made a joke that day,
I couldn’t help but chuckle,

I am the Manhunter,
Nothing personal,
Just business,
The cycle of life,
Even monsters must eat,

Do you feel his gelid breath?

Welcome to my home stranger,
Wipe your coats and hang up your shoes,
Make yourself at home please,
It is my fortress,
My sanctum,
My workshop,

Within its walls lies wonder,
And a hint of madness,
Here manifests my literary alchemy,
My lyrical experimentation,
It is a realm of perpetual loneliness,
But also true clarity,

I write every colour under the sun,
Angels in freefall playing violins,
Ballet with stars,
Dragons saving damsels,
Ghosts in pitched food-fights,
And heroes with villainous grins,

Stories and sonnets,
Poems and poesy,
This playground has all of these,
And so much more,
This is my castle,
This is my fortress,

Safe from the siege of outside rationality,
Safe from the slings and arrows of the world,
Safe from sanity.

To most who look,
Poetry looks a glorious act,
A noble act,
But it’s a lie,
It is butchery,

I hack and cleave,
Words into prime cuts,
Punctuation into mince,
It is a foul process,
The table glistens with grease and crimson,

Exsanguinate the prose,
And remove narrative viscera,
Carve a strip of exposition there,
And rend from it superfluous fat,
My pen thirsts for more,

Boiling bones of expression,
Reducing them to grist for future ventures,
Everything is red,
The grisly work is done,
For the punters to love and hate,

Caked in blood and gore,
Of projects discarded,
I am no writer,
No poet,
I am a butcher.

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?

Nonsense

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?

Writersblock

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.

Cerberus

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?

Nopower

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.

MrAsh