Within a mere winds wisp
from the henge,
It stands, majestic.
Built by calloused hands,
Of stone pillar, carved
By centuries of raging Usk,
to rise above Isca Silurum.
The cambion desires and dreams,
Realised by this last enchantment.

Within a mere winds wisp
from the henge,
It falls, forlorn.
Razed by calloused hands,
To jealous rocks, wasted
By centuries of cooling Usk,
to lay beside Isca Silurum.
Staring at catherderal skies
over nights of firefly summer.

Two jacks, used.
I forgive my Camelot.

Faces faces all see the slates and bitter tastes of
Unsound grace and commonplace disdain.

Better yet, better answer quick, before they see
The lines in your face and the lies that came to be

Sit back kick lateral, mind spew collateral, little splatter
Ink splot shatter mattering horn in stained distraught sock

No thought or word intention not heard visceral stink begun to slink way up to the think-ing parts not heart, not head, but bloated sack-

-Eats its way while mind tries to retract the thing it tainted last, can’t quite recall what was meant by “slow not fast, future never past”

O the kind, o the gentle, never questioned, dismantled, inner workings conversing on how to persecute the last remaining sane thought.


Eyes torn far from painted face, ears burst in from cambion mace, divided incited read my righted left hand sacred name been taken who what blood skin heat shift weak strong bear tweak **** scare off

**** down, come up, *******, ritual rited.
Madness carries till incited
Noise sight smell lust break. break.

Law unbound as skin peels back
Flesh melt the bone, pain is lack-ing
Face fear become the truth
Or lie forever drenched in youth

Straight off the presses of my warped mind
Comes another ******* broken record scream
Broken bottles and used needles crash in the current
Of my polluted ***** consciousness stream

Cambion Nephilim Paradise Lost
Under the heavy heel of the undertow
I Weep and see how awful goodness is
I'm in Charon’s boat as I Row Row Row

Slithering crocodiles wait to eat the refuse
As I drift down the river with no direction
While Gondoliers whistle in Venetian Canon
Sinking like a cannon to my ****** up reflection

That's all I am in the end a collection of thoughts
Written by better men and formed by worse times
Just another repeating record trying to scream
And thinking it will sound less desperate if I make it rhyme.