Curse the nepenthe of thy balmy lips and goblet bittersweet.
Thy promises repulse me as do all sugary nothings.
Indolent thou flowest through the cavern of sleep,
and I cavort and carouse in my musings of befouling thee.
Assassin of all triumph that has ever come to be!
Thee I exile by the very word
which breathed thee absurd and serene!
I deny thy power in the stretching sails
of a soul and songbird by art of ravenous will,
and dethrone the silent terror of the aeons at thy feet.
Grace my ears with the canticle of thy dead screams
as I hail with pandimensional fury
to the rise of Mnemosyne!
I laid siege to the empire of myself to haul my heart away from the throne of lies which years of exogenous depravity armored and bid the hideous sun to shine dead inside.
I burnt alive to rekindle the truth of the looped mask.
‘Tis not love of liquid gold; for this ancient fire is not capable of such devotion.
‘Tis not love of pious monger, but a massacre in infernally divine hunger.
This haunting craving is the wailing monster, the archfiend who clawed my consciousness in behest of warning me against the silent storm of the reasons blinded by veils enslaving desires.
The wretched one wished alone to remind me of all which I am not, and it took his perseverance along with the lower octave of a household’s tutelage to bring about the executioner to the exalted post upon which the gods of the underworld bled their might in sacrosanct horror as their passionate tears calcinated the world from above.
‘Tis destruction, the benison of a lofty power – death made into form.
‘Tis not love, but growth.
Denuding the wintry scales
of a dragon loved in empty disgrace
did bring oblivion to its knees ‘fore the arch-way of self-rendition.
The elusive symptom summoned the tidal wave
of the titan in emerald turnt gray.
“No more stone frontage!”, cried the oracle behind the stage,
“Harness the glory of the sunken race
as the triple head of sovereignty manifest”.
“It is dangerous”, I said, “a peril and terror of the earthly depth”.
“I know the wraith’s caress”, the oracle emerged more or less;
“The ice age preserved the pulsations of the roots’ remains.
Silver and mercurial in sentiment,
he whose path is marked by watchful consciousness is bound to rule
or die by his own intellect”.
The wind whirled
through the hollow mountains and empty forests.
In the live gardens of dormancy,
its frolic met the shadow of its conscience.
The black wind rose and blew the carrion of hope
into the multifarious crevasses of the underworld;
for if there once stood a heart so pure,
the currents of Tartarus reclaimed parentage
over the zephyr most blithesome.
“O Bearers of Beauty and Paladins of Life’s Glow!”
roared the child of hidden thorns;
“Have you no sentiment for the suffering of the sickly nursed?
Woe betide your cowardice
as the world transpires under the vexing star of vacuity!
Lassitude unsurpassed dims the ancient fire and condones lies.
Where is the embrace of sweet night?
Where the dynamic current that transcends flesh and bypasses time?”