Dwarfs Perdition
(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
