In a faraway place and faraway time
stood square a cabin rotted pine and bramble flue.
Once haven for old crones craven - their skins thin-skinned slivers of brine;
now nary a soot line marked a witches' brew.

In the dark, swirling silver stark and creatures would quiver
held over ***-stew thither, along hymns of damning chanted.
Waggled tongues with an evil glaze would slither,
cursing in eye, toe, and liver the bubbling broth decanted.

Oh a malkin giggled and a paddock piggled;
sniggled in a mirth-marked cauldron's rubble double bubble.
With a whoosh and a swish a bony finger had wiggled,
as papery skin withered the drubble swuddle brubble.

On those blackest of nights, when wolves would fear the moon,
howls held loomed, choked on down the throat of dusk.
Hatred uttered its sleepy breath, pitch-entombed
and justice marooned under a tar most brusque.

Shadows danced incantation
for an occultish creation, oh the devil's bidding be done!
Flamed carnation, neither here nor there god-fearing,
cackling a primrose coronation; the stirring spoon spun!

Death-catcher chimes hung close upon the entry;
a dust since turn of century marred bone;
witches’ wart-encrusted noses crinkled at gentry;
chenille voices sung with celerity a hellish praise: Divinum Occultum.

A little duende ran down the cauldron,
gloom chanting a chant come out with a hurl.
Burnt feet chasing away all ghosts ‘n goblins,
unfurling like whisper from the concoction:

Doom upon all the world.

my nails are again earth
digging and enslaved
they know I haven't worth
and let me dig my grave

my skin decays while not yet dead
my blood already clots and drains
my brain of maggots rattles my head
as worms and rats fight in my veins

each breath disturbs the frenzied flies
living in my rusted lungs
and the blinking of my eyes
peels apart old webs strung

the humming in my chest
no longer from a heart still beating
but from the wasps beneath my breast
building from this body fleeting

the silence of the night
tastes sweeter than before
the dirt settles about me tight
and the humming is no more

i wasn't born hungry, i remember how it happened.
a bad man put a hole in me, one day when i was
very young
and i've been eating ever since:
i love gluttony, hate, ****, burning buildings, and you.

i'm sorry, it's not my fault. i was born hungry,
like strange flowers bloom:

both too old and too soon.

The Moon hung low in the sky
like the tarnished reflection
of my soul on that night .
☆
A night spent rambling
down lonely streets of
derelict dream houses ,
with forbidding peaked
rooves ,
stretching high into the
gloomy dark like knives .
☆
Now and then ,
a sound made by something unknown ,
would drift on the dank air
or round some
threatening corner .
☆
Was there faint stirring
of grey curtain in a window ,
☆
A muffled cry behind
peeling paint of bolted door ,
☆
A soft voice sighing ,
straining against the wind to be heard ,
☆
But then , no-one was there .

When dreams make the
shadow of their evil real ,
then walk the sodden path
of forgetfulness .
☆
Forgetting of all life , love
and tenderness of human
touch .
☆
Vanquished , youth's idyll
lay bound in silken chains of regret .
Blinded eyes plucked out ,
lay on a silver tray at his
side .
☆
Discarded and unloved .
☆
Like a meagre meal
in poverty's room ,
the soul is dissected and
eaten piecemeal by devils .
☆
While in dead of night
or blazing sun of noon ,
the stench of rotting dreams
shrouds Eternity over those deadened eyes .

I feel them touching me
in my sleep .
That morning I spent as a servant .
☆
They leave signs for me
on the road .
A person's name scribed
upside down ,
three times and in a row .
☆
I feel them next to me
on my bed .
That morning I spent as a servant .
☆
They reveal many things
in my dreams .
A story that was hidden ,
concealed ,
three times and in a row .

Voices in the dark
like Spring-heeled Jacks ,
run down a grimy slate roof
into a filthy gutter
filled with the tears of Saint Sophia .
☆
Dust , dirt , insects
and the remains of dead
forget-me-nots ,
the only images left to
a diseased mind .
☆
They run over and over
in geometric perfection ,
☆
a cataclysm of holes .
☆
☆
☆
                       2
No light for his lantern ,
hope forsaken gloom ,
then run down
tormented avenues
to an empty field ,
under the moon of
Mars in September  .
☆
Under blood red stars ,
without truth or meaning ,
the tower of his wasted
dreams ,
and the chimeras of his
past ,
gather now around
and begin casting lots .

He is the Singing God ,
the Singularity of Numbers .
His fortress is my stronghold
and His beautiful visage
is the Horn and Shield
that makes my enemies to shake
and tremble in fear .
☆
He drives them to the sea
and casts them down in silence ,
bound with silken cords of regret ,
then tormented by cherubs and
seraphim and glowing
purple orbs ,
while for me a great banquet is laid out .
☆
In forgotten pyramids on
the Mountains of the Moon ,
they heard the Earth tremble
as He brought forth fire from His mouth
and consumed the Unclean
in a deluge of despair .
☆
The valleys of their deceit lay exposed
and the temple of their lies
became a sodden field
devoid of all human warmth .
Putrid wasteland of misery ,
a mansion blown over with
flies .
☆
As for Jehovah my God ,
he is flawless and perfect .
He is Alpha and Omega .
He raises me to the highest of mountains
and guides my hunter's Moon
on the path of His
righteousness .
☆
Only oblivion awaits the profane
who put darkness for transcendence
and hope for base untruth
and lies that issue forth
from that archangel of sadness
bound in chains at the bottom of the pit .
☆
The wrath of Jehovah
or the beauty of righteous violence .
Seven star sisters were saved .
Delivered , they pronounced holy judgement and
down into a valley walled of black sheer towering onyx
those afflicted souls were cast .
☆
The Keeper of the Mysteries ,
the Black Madonna and the
first crowned queen of Egypt ,
now tred the temple path in paradise ,
where lion lies down with the Lamb
and all expression is as the mind of my god .

Forces they refuse to contemplate ,
gather round them like
wraiths .
The stolen treasure they
conspire to conceal ,
scant hope their souls
debased .
☆
See now the towering
archangel ,
Michael , with his sword .
Intent foul purpose now
costly repaid ,
come the Day of the Lord .
☆
Across an expanse of
night and fog ,
they wander now alone .
And not before
transgression reversed ,
will any be suffered come
home .

Come October they would rise again ,
steal through hidden doorways .
Putrescent then they take their form ,
in liminal space they have their birth .
☆
Every year they come for their meat ,
driven by some unknown clock.
In twenty-eight days they become manifest ,
their grey bony fingers unlock .
☆
A gallery of faded portraits ,
mark Octobers that have gone before ,
gaze longingly out of picture frames ,
behold the living on which they feed .
☆
It gets darker now once more I tell you ,
it shan't be very long ,
till October casts it's deadened pall ,
and then their sickly will be done .