Posts Tagged ‘good or evil’

There was a man I heard tales of,
In social circle upon social circle,
I heard tell of a cold-blooded man,
Below a watery facade he waits,
An aquatic veneer to see through,
Sugared words and a smile a touch too perfect,
As deceptively fluid as the swamps of hot musk,
A migrating carnivore of every social savanna,

Holding reptilian eyes upon you,
Yellow-green hunger,
Scaly avarice,
Coolly waiting,
Leaning against a pillar martini in hand,
But trust not those crocodile tears,
Do not trust that crooked grin,
Do not get close to the waters surface,

He is a predator,
A user,
Prowling for a useful antelope,
And when he goes for what he wants,
You will find it doesn’t favour you,
It will be all gore and bubbles,
Thrashing and tearing,
Heart and nerves rent out.

The angels lied,
The stars are falling,
A starscape and horizon afire,
A conflagrant deluge of feathers,
My fellow parasites have already fled to the chapels,
Tipsy on bread and wine,

But I stand here a heretic,
My only friend,
A goat with a thousand eyes,
Veiled in sulphurous musk,
He told me to escape to hell,
That salvation rested in cavernous limbo,

The devil would never lie,
So with blistered hands I dig,
A garden of mundane dirt,
No longer a lawn,
Mocked by a charred hanging tree,
Encircled by worm-riddled picket,

As you regard this pagan,
You think me mad,
My countenance screams so,
Mayhap I am,
I smolder endlessly now,
But I escaped your holy apocalypse.

There are some out there who spew not speak,
Those whose throats writhe skittishly with a million little creatures,
Not words,
Just torrents of insects,
A plague of locusts in vowels and tones,
Ravaging the target of their utterances,

From a maw liveried in spiders web,
Come wasps and hornets with malicious style,
Accusations and threats on wings,
Ants and termites boring into your ears,
You feebly bat at them with refuting arguments,
Only to be buffeted anew at greater buzzing sonority,

These peoplr do not intend to debate,
Only to feed upon your angst,
Like a rural field stripped bare,
They do not wish to share wisdom,
But to feast upon you with verbal mandibles,
To feed the vermin host of their tongues.

We are well off the map right now,
Far beyond the vigil of the compass,
The epitome of inhospitability,
Stalked by blizzards and hungry things,
There is no day and night,
Only biting ivory,
Torrential cold thorns from an empty sky,

Upon the alpine fields of snow,
Hemming us in like trapped seals,
Lay countless bones of victims both human and livestock,
Fodder for maws that know no sating,
And footprints of collosal proportion,
We still hear the quakes,
Though that too could be our throes of fear,

There are horrid things here,
Primeval beings of feral glamour,
Walking titans of dank fur and sinew,
Possessed of hunger no natural thing should,
Unabated by the encroaching white tempest,
Weathering it forlornly in their hunt,
Their hunt for us,

And as the roof of our shelter is ripped skyward,
We know the trolls have found us,
The next moment will be all screams and teeth.

Aboard this airship of rigging and iron,
A wrecked vessel of steam and gunpowder,
We are pirates of the stratosphere,
Scorching a tyrannical smile across the skies,
Spying our next lost mark,
Our next banquet of blood and swag,

Amidst cranking gears and screeching pistons,
Both vessel and crew are shrouded in man-made fog,
Half-mad and mostly intoxicated,
We are heavily armed corvids of crime,
Come to pick clean the iron bones of helpless shipping,
Errantly the pilot guns the behemoths engine,

So load you brass pistol,
Fasten your goggles,
Brandish your hungering cutlass,
And take this rope,
Swing onwards to glory and riches,
Or a hundred mile drop to oblivion.

I am dragged from my sleeping nirvana,
To a bedroom suddenly unfamiliar,
An unseen force holds me in place,
Diabolic manacles upon each limb,
The bed becomes a gaol,
The infinite weight of sleep paralysis,
I feel ominous eyes upon me,

Two corpselights in the corner,
Limpid apertures flaunting hells own fires,
Fixated upon me like an eagle spying prey,
There’s a malice behind them,
A demonic spite,
Ice-cold dread burning as the eyes approach,
Twin lasers cutting into my very bones,

As the eyes draw close,
Enough to feel the abominable heat,
Swelter emanating from them as if breathing,
They simply stare in ghoulish hate,
Holding inches away with their malicious effusion,
Feasting upon my soul in its throes of terror,
Until the morning comes with banishing sun.

From my silken casket,
I am dragged to cognizance,
By painful aural hooks,
The night pierced by an unseen cacophony,
An orchestral banshee wail on the lawn,
Illuminated by a crescent in emerald hues,
Moonlight through a lens of wisps,

From my dusty window I spy a dread throng,
An assembly of ghouls,
Skeletons of the closet,
Bony fingers clasped on to instruments of every kind,
Shrieking stagnant air into flutes from lungs long rotten,
Guided by a softly groaning conductor,
Hollow cavities reading from songsheets comprised of past mistakes,

Their mournful tune sings dead memories into my mind,
And I can’t help but well up,
Their revenant of a chrous is anathema to my balance,
Brass and woodwind accuse in shrill tones,
Violins pinching at my arms with raucous timbre,
A melody that shan’t allow me to rest guiltless again,
And the flutes parade ever on.

A child of demonology,
They told me how I was made,
By that blasted coven,
Possessed of dark magic and darker intents,
I was spawned by no natural means,
Formed by ritual in lieu of conception,

Dragged from the abyss,
From that infernal bubbling womb,
Scratching at the cast iron feebly,
The cold skin of this cauldron,
Contrasting against my seared ruby skin,
A mere fell homunculus,

Into that vessel they allotted great labour and pain,
Poisonous herbs of all shades and temperaments,
Liquid spite in floods,
Pigs hearts and crows eyes,
Galvanising the broth to rouse sorcerous nascency,
Magic to beget my fiendish form,

Why sire such an abomination?
Why bring evil to life?
For its own sake they told me,
I have no inherent goal,
No good reason to exist,
For I am cauldron-born.

I find myself bound,
Not by a jacket of canvas,
Nor by lock and key,
But by an assertion of vocal force,
A societal mandate of rules,
An invisible straitjacket of murky glass,
Weightless yet overbearing,

This garment bares a droll image,
The image of a good little citizen,
Projected upon my form without consent,
An alleged single form of living,
A sycophantic idealisation of conformity,
Enforced with strange looks and cupped hands,
Supposedly the only right way,

My elbows swell and circulation ceases,
Thrash as I do,
Trying in angst to be myself,
Itching and struggling,
We all wear this hellish restraint,
In this asylum of a sick world,
So tell me in truth,

Do you too rebel against yours?

Mankind is a race of cultural morticians,
Us and our forefathers grimly built atop the past,
Foundations made over burial grounds,
Urban ziggurats covering hovels of eld,
Peopled malls standing on the shoulders of ancients,
Their lives reduced to building material,
Desecration by another method,
Old societies forgotten for the sake of progress,

But chronology conquers all,
Even our neon lives will degrade,
An empires tempo becomes decadence,
Which heralds a demise soon after,
Our nests and families too shall become as necropoli,
Ruins for the mute ghosts of our ways,
And when our bodies and homes are dust,
Who will build atop our lives?