Wednesday, June 8, 2016
Eldritch & Eerie Poetry
(Eldritch & Eerie Poetry)
Devil Dwarfs from the Netherworld
In all of Seventh Hell, a morbid hyper
-natural habitat, human remnants
live with sluggish plant life,
sharing each other’s parts in sub-animal
thought and activity—: with gull and boldness
in one heap of an anomalous horticulture
of turpitude, and iniquities.
All parts being ennui: forked with ears, and tongues,
Noses, thews, sways and boles; to an onlooker
this world would be thaumaturgy, for
its wondrous weirdness, beyond redemption.
Inside this pocketed loamy uninterred furrow,
in its oubliettes, devil like dwarfs do
their grafting of plant and corpse and even
live human organisms, assembling
fetus parts—sanguine—found in graves, purchased
at practicums, clinics; suture one to another,
amid repugnant odors, and ordure.
Deep in Seventh Hell, deep in its arcane
grotto, resides the Syrinx—the genii
of it all, once a river-nymph, changed into
a reed, and the reed into pieces of
decreasing lengths, fastened together with wax,
her skin incrustation of bark, her teeth
erudite and spiked, forked. Reptilian tongue.
Head like a fairy, wings like a bat—
seducer of the dwarfs, who suck the
yellowish-red Ichor—as if from the
old ones, the Titans, cursed into the plants,
taken out by forming incisions,
into human torsos or stems of a harsh wound!
Beneath this loamy pocket of earth the
demon dwarf lair in ennui, await the
new and immense emergence of the surface’s
new diabolical age. The age of
seethed fear, pandemonium, of debauch
menaces, no longer halcyon, inimical
their hair tresses, just waiting, waiting… to
enter the surface, waiting ten-thousand
years. Their dwarf demonic eyes spin in orbits
of stooped pleasures to be, still ennui from
this halt, their muscles knotted up from the stoop
within their lair; yet all with demoniac steadfastness.
So, on they wait, the final long night, the
last hour, midway between cobra-like activation,
and a door closed behind them to drag in
humanity’s muffled tribulation.
Arms hanging like apes, per near touching the
ground, waiting for man to sour with God and
for God’s last wielding break, with humanity
as it is, thus, they are ready for their
victims. Those who have cursed God’s will,
closed hearted, indifferent to man,
yet burden themselves with cats and dogs
and hold no emotions for their neighbors:
mongrels and mutts among men; for politicians
they have the rusty coffin-hinge, ready.
“They will fall like the falling of the gargoyles
from a cathedral” whispers the chief dwarf
fiend, to the incrustation barked Syrinx,
who will guide the dwarfs out of the fleapit
out of Seventh Hell’s loam, for earth’s doom.
And now she screams: “We come, we come with
our heated, and frenzied breath of crimson
hell,— out of our hell-born labyrinth!”
No longer bored, hesitated, or doubtful.
To slay or be slain, with waxing heat, growing!
An arboreal masquerade, of flesh and stem:
of demon and mythological goddess.
Human scions hid behind leafage, mantles.
They change shapes like instant deliriums.
The Syrinx’s Un-decorous Demise
The Syrinx, with squandering horror to spill
upon the human race, her repulsive
hate to all of mankind’s lot, she threatened
the world that would listen, her cruel with
exigency, to take the devil’s pledge
of the mark of 666 (the mark of
he Beast, and Satan being that very
metamorphoses, —like to the Syrinx’s
transubstantiation, or transgenic…)
save, should you not, only to be fated
by and by, to a hopeless life, and lack.
And she built for herself a ghoul-god temple.
In an idle saunter, she paced its marble
stone floors, held her rituals and worship: and
thus came the priesthood of dwarf-fiends whom
had introduced much gloom to mankind in
her name: the provider of provender of the
Titan gods, of long ago. Yet she too
was an impersonal force akin to the
elements, of the supernatural, cosmos;
thereby, subject to dark ebon ambiguities.
No one knew the manner of her evaporation;
feasibly her death, her execution—
Perchance, brought to an even lower order
of subterranean earth-entities,
by Satan for her temple blasphemies. And
thus fed, and lived, with the devourers dead.
It is not simply heresy, but true, not a mere
hieratic figment, that once you join Satan’s
lot, he wants to rivals, and hence, the livid
Syrinx, must have forgot, was disavowed
with satanic pious reprobation, by Lucifer.
She had formed no conscious plan, to make
haste but dared to reconnoiter its restraints
for want of habituated worship and fame.
#5250/ 5-26 & 27-2016