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We have called the hermits of the jungle, madmen, and the beggars in side alleys, tramps, and the babbling fiends in the ausylum, lunatics, but I fear we have underestimated them. They have seen the horrors, they know the truths not meant to be known. I have seen such torments, such hellish places to inform you that no human mind can contain them, and so insanity is the only way.


24. Masshole. Record collector. Mystic. Swedophile. Dharma Bum. Riff cannon. Poet. Drunk.

"

Wake not the Dead:–they bring but gloomy night

And cheerless desolation into day

For in the grave who mouldering lay,

No more can feel the influence of light,

Or yield them to the sun’s prolific might;

Let them repose within their house of clay–

Corruption, wilt thou vainly e’er essay

To quicken:–it sends forth a pest’lent blight;

And neither fiery sun, nor bathing dew,

Nor breath of spring the dead can e’er renew.

That which from life is pluck’d, becomes the foe

Of life, and whoso wakes it waketh woe.

Seek not the dead to waken from that sleep

In which from mortal eye they lie enshrouded deep.

"
Because I can find nowhere on the internet where this exists and I fear I may one day lose the book wherein it is printed, I here produce Johann Ludwig Tieck’s opening poem to his “Wake Not the Dead” as it appears in an anthology of Victorian horror stories entitled “Dracula’s Guest”.
— 7 hours ago
#johann ludwig tieck  #Wake Not the Dead  #poem 
What, I fear, must be known…

There exists, past that last sane outcropping Lughdunum, a black and void land known only in the mouldering texts of those delirious wisemen whom have long dissolved into the remote corners of the collective unconscious. Scenes whose singular notions call to minds destined for the asylum. The last man whom uttered these themes publicly was later found in a manner which would send the most stout of temperments to a nauseaous revulsion. Under such strained a preface and so alarming a precident, I pray the trepid nature of my scrawlings, and the surmised condemning of my works as perverted blasphemies of reason and morality, shall serve to elucidate the nature and immediacy regarding these abhorrant circumstances to which this trembled mind has come approach public audience.

— 7 hours ago
#me  #prose 
Port of ____

My mind has left me and I have become on of Them. I long only to stare out into the long, low and lonely crimson harbor amidst a perpetual and sepulcharally grey sky. Beneath that noxious morning mist which is so uplifting to the trodden old souls that grovel about lifelessly by the sea’s edge. With great crestfallen overcoats and pocked, withered faces beneath tattered, round brims and drooping, sullen eyes and swollen livers. A dead and macabre scent fills the thick air. The whole of the place reeks of fish and other decay.
For my mind is absent in this aeon where I witness unfathomable, cavernous hulks of grotesque shape and configurement with all assemblies of great mollusk shells and barnicales suckling their underbellys. This putrid fish port the last sane outcropping on the way toward unknown N’zemekdhu. That I call this forgotten place a semblance of sanity, borders on fallacy. I speak not of its more perverse attributes which peck and prod the mind with uneasy and ghastly splendor.

— 7 hours ago
#me  #prose 
untitled draft (2011)

It is madness I long for. Complete lapse in judgement and dissociation with all known facts, evidence and reason. To plunge my crusted nails into the throat of Truth and thrash the life out of it. My eyes roll in withered sockets. A malign and odorous froth congregates at the edges of my mouth. Lungs choke out wizened breath with a furor only demons may entertain. I who have seen the End of ends. The Edge of edges. The infinities which no mortal man may glimpse and retain vision.

Time is like a slave-master whipping us into a deep and submissive slumber. We are not awake and dwell not in Reality. I have seen distant hills of Nezmak’du. I have paid the ferryman’s bounty to cross the river Vrangia. That cosmic shore which I landed became the firmament to which I crucified all that this illusory realm has bound me with.

With great peril didst I make my way to that ancient outcropping which no utterable human syllable may express. Therein and in much trepidation I had found the ancient and forlorn auroch Hymncles. Such horrors that tore and ravaged me along the way I cannot and will not describe.

In the sacred hall of the aeon-defiled beast didst I consort with all manner of formless ones. The Egyptian Seth and the Assyrian Bael, even the Queen Lilith bore unearthly torments upon me. When I glimpsed Hymncles, I drew my blade and lunged piercing sublime flesh and spilling meta-cosmically hued blood and in consumption brought me back from this ethereal state.

I awoke in cold sweat amidst the dingy New York flat. Outside a cool night breeze swathed the polluted air and the city teemed with life.

— 7 hours ago
#me  #prose 
the sacrament

It had come to this, in the lost hours where time bears no authority,

It had come to this, my ambitions had ravaged my simplicity,

Now crucified upon this distant shore,

overhead, raven’s reverie passes by

unmercifully fleeting in the dismal sky

I gaze and lift my eyes to blinding sunlight

Long have been the years stolen to this place

of silvery stardust and endless aeon.

In the fabled temple of N’zemekdhu I left my soul

In that forgotten archeon, abandoning my mind.

Now to this the cosmic shore I do renounce my life,

One of obsessions, manic depressions

Demons who embalmed the body

and hung my spirit upon this visceral outcropping.

— 8 hours ago with 1 note
#me  #poem 
what lurks beyond the line

have you ever dwelt
in such distant revrent hues
as if to bend the cosm
and rend that veil; oblivion it’s human name

what passing paraphets of sight
above the trench,
dunged about as it were with the peices of corpses who never made it out
who scribbled into the maddening hours, beneath rain and shell-burst
in vain professing, lamenting and hoping to return home

letters that reached only mourners, messages from beyond, bones and broken bodies buried hastily amid a retreat in an unknown grave in an unknown field before the remnants of what was once a home now an unknown waste.

it were as if 1917 would yet come, for ’16 passed ever so terribly
how the gas had come and crept up into the nostrils of living men
and turned them to piles of muck; the mud waist high and like a suffocating agent itself
it covered the land and sky and soul and each day was a grey delirium of explosions and shouts
and then silence for hours and hours, not a sound but shaking bones and moans from over the top
somewhere out there some wretched being whom reminded us of our fate, whom not even horror can fathom, lying limbless, headless, jawless faces, a cacophony of screams, agony in a human form, a creature of pain, pain with living, excruciating hours in some crater, some tremor of an anonymous shell-burst, some flashing instantaneous death which had failed him and left him naked, mere peices of flesh torn grotesquely and filled with shrapnel and dirt, without a humane nothingness, instead ineffible coughing, gaspings stranded beyond the wire without even the slightest human empathy, we sat under our tin hats and tried to put it out of our minds, to block it out like all those before.

Of those years, those night flares lighting up phantom raids, bayonets lunged sneakily in sleeping bellies, flashes of heat and warmth,
of intestines and life spilling out onto the frozen rock and broken soil, steam rising from terminal wounds. Those bombardments which shook a man’s soul and un-nerved his spirit, that no marching song, no patriotic duty or pleasant reverie could repel, that seemed to tear a man from his mind.

I dare say what tumultous things I saw, long into those silent otherworldly nights at watch. The Hun was always poking, proding seeking to illumine a weakness in the line. One of the first nights I heard a rustling and then something falling in the trench, before I could make sense of it an explosion and screams. After that I resolved to fire at any percieved movements. Pitch black as it was, the night could but vainly attempt to cover up the ghastly circumstances which months of shelling had induced, though the nauseating stench of decaying men and horses had been somewhat relieved by the onset of winter, one could still peer out, if he felt his nerves could allow him, through the darkness and catch faint cascading moonbeams which danced from bomb-craters and blasted trees, rubble and ruined equipment. It was a terrifying landscape, not dreamed by man in any vision of hell but a living kingdom of Death itself. If you could for even a moment dwell in the midnight silence which befalls a battlefield, I fear that no such sane pleasantry could ever grace you again. That void, timelessness almost serene to those who wade amidst the rising mortuary tides, blood so holy spattered, cascading, thrown about in buckets and smeared on the grey lifeless landscape; I remember returning to the rear for a few days relief from the front and seeing small flowers which were radiant with color and being transfixed by their vibrance like the blood which rained in the confusion after a shell-burst amid our ranks.

Yet on those nights at watch, I hid my fears, my feelings, my thoughts, I closed them and capsuled them with that silence. I sat smoking and staring off into the darkness, watching, though sometimes not fully aware, in a limbo of mesmerizing and fearful visions of dying men and old memories which seemed always haunted with death. In my head I heard melodies, singing like in that life before, birthdays and things that seemed unreal. An occasional flare would go up over the enemy lines so as to reconnoiter our defenses, in the distance I saw two men run between shell-holes. I sat motionless, the cigarrette still burning in my mouth, and ever so slightly readied my rifle. The flare began to dim and I could hear them crawling in the night. My heartbeat seemed to cease, my head was whirring and I felt nausea, tossing the smoke, I checked my sights and as I did another flare went up. This time I could see the two Germans crawling towards our wire. They had great shears and grey woolen coats. They too were covered in the endless muck and the scene became dream-like, there was much stillness in their woeful movements; as the flare began to die out I sat and watched. My body was as the mud, heavy, wet, clogged, the rifle like a child’s toy, I trembled in the cold. The shot peirced the stillness and in the faint light I percieved the man with the shears to crawl back into the darkness. Another man from my section crept up with wide eyes and relieved me of the watch. I crawled back not knowing whether I had hit my target and slept uneasily. I dreamt of childhood and confusing panoramas which I cannot describe.

— 8 hours ago
#me  #sketch 
on the light within a lover’s eye

Lo! the light that fades,
from a starlit’s eye
man he woes and wanders wide,
wheregone thee of his heart’s abide

unto that void of yester days?
or was it vainly e’er assayed
doest it lie in somber breast
or float midst solemn seas

doeth it pale to moonlit night?
or ebb unto autumnal sky, (or: now guised in spectral reverie)
that light I saw alike none before
soon didst fade cruelly; wo! wherefore?

whispers kept in darkened mind,
recalled within the drunken times,
of where it goes, I cannot say
for I whom saw it, rejoice to this day.

— 8 hours ago with 1 note
#me  #poem 
The Insomniac

It is not of the murderer or the ghost or the madman that I fear most, it is the insomniac. For it is he, who in dwelling amidst the small and forgotten hours of the day brings about the most malevolent and etheral malice. He who finds himself alone when the world is silent, when the world is most dark, when even the songbirds cease for fear they will be discovered, consorts with the greatest evil. In great peril is any man who finds himself at this hour neath gleaming moonbeam and starlight hues, where echoes the dying cries of the sun that has set into his western grave. Of he whom reads in the stillness of the cool night air, the epitaph of light, whom even Baphomet mourns. It is the sleepless man whom is furthest from right and pure doings. This I came to realize many centuries ago as I stared into the night-sky, my down-trodden spirit riding away forever upon a beam of light which ran into infinity from a long dead sun within an ageless constellation, amidst aeon-defiling cyclopean galaxies.

— 8 hours ago with 1 note
#draft  #2010  #me