Axel Mar 15

My mind wanders upon paths untreaden for untold times. Man has forgotten its memories here, long forsaken  are the ruins of this place. Silently draped in slumber between the mountains and the glaciers lay the sanctum.

And it was within its waters, upon seeing my own reflection that a void inside had filled itself to the brim with an agonizing terror that crept into the deepest part of my creature. And i cast eyes upon the monster i had thought to have become. A dreary dark casts down its cloak on the sky and the midnight orb spreads a sickening and slowly dying glow upon my skin. The faintest smell of cinder has drawn me near to the forsaken wastes.. a search for salvation, a cure for my illness, my bane.. I had sought mine own undoing. For is it not that paradise awaits in bittersweet death? An escape from anguished life with its toils, its charades and strife. Where better to strike the hand to oneself than in the cold embrace of mother earth.

Death is life in reverse. All man has accumulated and aspired to be, slowly vapours into nothing because everything started with nothing. Now walk we shall in a place where man walks beneath earth and earth rests upon him. It is here with trees i did connect and further lost sense of the human being. An uncontainable darkness of the most peculiar and ardent nature didst sink her claws deep beneath my soul, ravenously tearing away layer after layer of my wellbeing.

Hope burned down with furious immolation, upon this altar i submit to my own desecration. The flaying of my essence, bloodletting of the shell that once was mine.

I drink now my own blood, tasting sweet like the redest of wine.
Vampire i have become... the unkindling of mankind hath begun...
‘That is not dead which can eternally lie.. and with strange aeons even death may die.’

Pacing quietly across the ages
Bearing witness to the rise and fall of nations
Generations come and go like waves upon the shore
Yet eternal truths persist like rocks
Love, life, death, motherhood, human nature
Cycles of moon and sun, summer and winter
Universal context making ancient prose accessible
At least these myths are comforting
When one stands atop the void
Looking in vain through dark clouding nameless futures
What meaning holds the lonely moon
For colonists of Neptune who see fourteen?
Which tales of family shall warm synthetic hearts
When womb has given way to lab
And parenting to neural download?
What truth shall echo from accounts of pain
To beings whose nerves bear no such signals?
And what mortal fears and wonders shall remain
After strange aeons when even death may die?

Credit to H.P. Lovecraft for helping to inspire this poem and for the last line.
ezra warhol Feb 23

you say the word bad enough and it loses its meaning. Bad. Bad. Bad. & so on; people may think your crazy, but really you are just exercising your right of free speech and
                                                             ­ ever present weirdness to follow the voices command...
What voices? you ask
                  the ones external and internal; to your own head.
 ­         so here we are, the stars at the glorious freckles of the night sky, where the sun kills itself every night to let the moon breathe.
      first true love story.
      forgotten because
                               repetition makes things lose its meaning and I assure you that this story had been repeated many times.
                                           one morning it may not and the sun may have done a Romeo (but that day had not come so don't dwell).
       it might do, though, so maybe dwell a tad: your choice really!

for the full podcast listen here my friends - ""
be very much appreciated and you might enjoy it.
-extract from script.
Damon Nestor Jan 7

In dreams does the rose bloom.
Wild and free, her beauty graces the land,
Bathing the dreaming in floral perfume,
Once more beyond the gates that stand
Between sweet chaos in life,
And the grand splendor of reality's end.
Daylights glow finds the rose amidst strife,
A vision in crimson glory as dark winds bend
And bind in the frigid world of the waking.
Vile beasts bring despair to her bed of soil,
Raining sorrow upon the soul that's breaking
To the will of those who in darkness toil.
Sweet sleep shall ease the burdened mind,
As the fantastic beyond beckons yet again,
Through sand hewn gates,
Into the deep waters of passions plain.

"I have frequently wondered if the majority of mankind ever pause to reflect upon the occasionally titanic significance of dreams, and of the obscure world to which they belong." - H.P. Lovecraft
Temporal Fugue Dec 2016

Madness, I was given
in darkness, I descend
Never to be forgiven
for the horrors I defend

The path away from college
etched upon my mind
Seeking greater knowledge
evil did I find

My straitjacket too tight
but that, is rightly so
Demons that were sated
on blood that I let flow

A delving into Lovecraft's work, very disturbing stuff.
Dae Staebell Dec 2016

I hear it as clearly as my madness will let me
That antiquated rumble that seems infinite
Tormenting as if pleading for an answer
I have listened for what seems like a lifetime
My curiosity always fearing
To go further than my helpless ears
But my feet are not my own anymore
I feel most possessed
As if my body is being beckoned
My feet move with a courage that is not my own
I have come to understand
With every step I grow more religious
Wondering if a healthy prayer
Would give me the mental fortitude
To confront what was at the end of this dreadful journey
My feet have trudged for what feels like an eternity
Always hugging this gruesome cliff side
I have repented enough for two lifetimes
But it is not enough to break these shackles
The call becomes more deafening the closer I go
Ever more appealing and atrocious
And the more I listen
The more I can feel an eldritch presence
Ethereal and hauntingly decadent
Whatever this abomination is it has cast its line on me
It's fetid hooks sinking deep
And I feel as naked as a prior without his crucifix
As the hill angles ever so slowly downward
I feel my trepidation grow tenfold
There is a place is stories told
Handed down generations
About an accursed grotto
Before there was a church
There was a church of another kind
Worshipping older gods than the ones I know
They say it was a fanatical cult
Made up of local townsfolk
Ever so zealous and faithful
Who sacrificed and mutitlated their kin
To appease their gods
Other always thought it a wives tale
Meant to terrify pesky children
But I knew better
Ever since hearing that faint invasive call
Old gods or no I make peace with my end drawing near
I steel myself and walk vigilant to my death
Down these carved out stone steps
But though I thought myself a warrior
Nothing could prepare me for what lied ahead
Into the decrepit grotto I go ever blind
With the only illumination my faint fading soul
And with that fading it all goes black
And I step further into this abyss
My fickle soul left me
As if it was already reaped
And what I hear next is the true Calling of the Deep

Inspired by Lovecraft
Damon Nestor Nov 2016

From whence it departed sweet sleep returns,
Banishing the weary mind to drifting bliss,
Granting sweeping visions as the wheel of night slowly turns.
Stranger realms wait beyond the wall,
‘Neath the veil of darkness that drapes o’er the land,
Separating the dreaming from the waking world’s all.
Oh great rest do not forsake the fool,
Nor the hand pushed by forces seen not by mortal eyes,
For glimpses at peace during chaos are a needed tool.
Once more through the gates guarding the sunlit land,
Into the upside down that becomes the realm of the slumbering ones,
Where gods and monsters meet the fool in his nightly stand.
Stranger realms do indeed wait just beyond the wall,
When conscious thoughts of the world around finally fade,
Giving way to the beauty of sweet sleep’s beck and call.

Johan Nel Oct 2016

The seas lay undisturbed in a darkness like none primed
A constellation of age old men still play the songs of time
Exploding and gaseous, unperturbed by what is dead or alive
And he lays waiting, dreaming in his house of limbo animation
The monster of not good nor bad but the mere idea of creation

The infinite water, black as the heart of earth
Holds the old gods and the colossal that is to be birthed
He cannot be simply gazed upon or braved by violent men
For he is not time or space or life, his image is not made sane by pen

He rises to the perversions of man, passed to cultists young at play
And when lust for blood burns in the eyes on his image of clay
Dancing fits, trembling tremors and eyes lost to the sky of white
His will plays boundless through the dreams of poets who cry at night

So the age will erupt and heed these prophetic words
Be weary in the movement of the seas, the grounds and birds
Lost at once in the blindness of your ignorance
It is when the veil is lifted and strange aeons have arrived
When Cthulhu surely walks the earth and death has surely died

© Johan Nel 12 October 2016
Damon Nestor Aug 2016

A warm breeze ushers in the fall of night,
As small torches hold court in the fading daylight.
Their flickering glow sends shadows dancing across the ground,
Whilst amphibious royalty croon to the land their ancestral sound.
Distant shores beckon the weary mind.
Exotic lands promise escape from the woes of mankind,
Back into the ocean depths once more,
Beyond the wall of sleep envisioned in lore.
'Tis the pull of the evening tide;
Where such wonders await travelers upon the other side.

Knit Personality Jul 2016

Azathoth almighty, thou lord of all chaos,
   Who knowest not goodness, who knowest not ill,
Who knowest but freedoms and fetters are truthful
   And morals are lies which but fetter free will:

The sunlight hath flown from the swallowing darkness,
   Retreating to hide in—and worry—the west;
(For flee it doth ever the following darkness
   Which followeth e'er in eternal unrest.)

The night hath arrivèd with lightning and thunder
   And rain that delivers the joy of all joys,—
The joy of receiving, enclos'd in the darkness,
   Thy thundering voice in the chaos of noise.


Azathoth: Lord of All Things
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