The Macabre Poems [Part Four: Poems 54 to 80]




57) Out of the Dust

Part I

Out of cosmic friction and its rift,
Out of havoc and mass,
Man was born
To a primitive class,
On a planet yet unknown.

Part II

Across the galley, winged demons flew
Ape-like men appeared,
And strange monsters:
All creeping at man’s nature.

58) The Black Hand

His hand a closing veil from hell
Looming to my braw,
To cover it like a canopy.
Behind him the world was upside down
And at his feet stood ancient crumbling hate.
He stood still within this evening bleak,
With weathered limbs and somber sounds
And a waxed face I could barely see;
Then, in silence, his hand went upon my face.

Note: 7/04 #340)

59) The Long Hemp

The night shadows sigh across the grass
And chant through the misty trees;
The night shadows bellow the hemp on high
With the tug of laughing goblins.
And many a song they pipe to the twilight
And the far-off woods of ebony.

July 13 2004 [#338]

A Prose Poem

60) Eyes of the Pacing Serpent

Against a topaz sky, I see a pacing, Green Serpent. He paces on the skyline, moving with the clouds of flaming turquoise. Jade cat-eyes, god of the air, sunk and lost in the cloudy mist, he did not look at me, nor by sign did he speak to me. But his brooding silence tells me—“Ages before you were born, I was. For the race of man fades, fades into forgotten glory; yet I live on.”

Frozen in a dream-vision above the great roof of reality, with undulated silence, his hiss echoes, vibrates the atmosphere— ignites fires blazing in the heavens. A mist lay between me and the clouds, the great dragon paces with a grin, and his mighty bat-like wings, ready to devour with his burning, jet eyes, swallow all in his path.

He looks down, but still he looks not at me, with his eyes of eon-haunting magic, looks down to the satanic frogs he’s sent to a great city, with their, their nostrils ablaze—in purple and scarlet robes. He is preparing a nightmare.

July 13 2004 [#337]

Prose Poem

61) Mistress of Darkness

This is a dream that came to me long ago, not in a haze, but in vivid, daydreaming mode. I stood in a sacred hall of sorts; its tapestry was brilliant, by pillars of glittering marble, and a ceiling of high, gilt leaf. I stood in mid air, somewhere in the center, all of this beneath me, images, dimly shadowed—as a woman walked by with a candle.

Then appeared a goddess in all black, a woman of beauty, strange-eyed with dark, abyssal hair, clutching hands into waves of darkness, as she was cast down into volcanic air; a slender and leaping tigress, a mistress of demigods, I deemed. Deep she echoed, until she no longer could be heard or seen.

7/13/04 #339

Prose Poetry

62) The Foulness of the Imp

Twice I met the imps (in a most peculiar way) who filled the air with a burst of bulky, shifting stench, suspended without a body, their lush corpse odors lingering: bat-lipped imps, bone-spitting imps, barrenness upon their lips—nostrils huffing like dying sows, unclean light circling within its own gloom seeping out of wombs they had saved for this occasion; their breath came thus up from their bowels, to spill on me.

Both times, I was alone, isolated in my car and bathroom: I learned they do not like to be mocked or scorned; yes, the madness of truth that fell upon me, as, by their putrid stench-spell, manifested scorn, triumphant revenge—call it what you will—it drifted back and forth, inch by inch filling each and every once of space in my car, in my room. Not a perfect stench, just revolting enough to be paralyzing.

“Who did you think it was?” boomed a voice, gaunt and ill-willed.

Guilt, I felt guilt; I provoked the misfits, provoked them beyond the point of retreat. Yet the smell continued, nondescript, yet it could desiccate a corpse to dust, should it remain suspended in air long enough. Yes, out of the imp’s mouths come the worms of hell, the infinite smells, pantheist still.

I opened the doors so the enraged pong, its stunning weariness could seep out, and, out like a slave to the lungs, the imps, who would have to chase their urine covered mist, went.

Written 7/10/04

Prose Poem

63) Slaying the Prowess

I stood in line, hands by my side—among a roll of men. A handsome young man walked near, slowly, hesitantly, stopping in front of me. Clad in a short tunic, shoulder bare, mantle of an Athenian figure [l984], a true aristocratic face, his long blond hair, unbound, glittering like gold-dust, his light bronze-banded arms were smoothly muscled; he seemed deadly and passionate.

I wore sandals (within this dream) and a garment that covered half my flesh, yet he lingered closely to my form to turn a moment of beauty into lust. I knew without thinking, as he knew, time was fading. He said, “You: I choose you” “Go your way,” said I with wide open eyes, “There are many here who would desire your love.” It was not as if he was destitute, but the love he desired was lust, to wedge a stone between God and me. His face was like a wolf that was tossed a bare bone, with no marrow; he sneered.

Vision took place, l984, written originally on a piece of paper, lost, and now remembered; July 2004, #342)

64) The Haunting of Demons

When I, and I alone, dream,
Alas!—things fade into rain,
Rain, red rose rain.

I know then why I am running—
And where hides the devil’s thorn.

And when these long,
Too long winter nights
Burn bitterly until daylight
Like eldritch vipers, overhead
Whose thorns lurk low
Close to my bed,

These long,
Too long winter nights
Give birth to demonic delights
Outside my mind and eyes.

Deep, in deepest dreams,
Is where I’ll be—
As they roam
From place to place, looking,
Looking and hunting for me:

As they seep,
In my dreams, looking
Looking and hunting for me….

June 26 2004 [No# 317]

65) Dream Smoke

I woke today and realized I,
I had a terrifying dream,
somewhere in-between
smoke and reality—;

What day, what week was it?
I didn’t know, for:
everything was fading, fading,
just fading gray dream smoke.

Everything’s a dream or delirium
or so it seems (I said to myself)
even the birds on the ledges;
the world of reality is,
is in the urine and pungent smells
(I tell myself).

For the sleeping world:

In here the light is on all night;
in here the day looks like night;
in here silence chokes:
week after week after week,
fading into dream smoke.

In the waking world,
tirelessly I count the days.
In here you just don’t know.
Foot steps sound like heart beats.

In here you just don’t know, for
it’s all covered with dream smoke.

Composed 6/26/04 #316

Selected Poems

66) Homeless in the Cosmos

I watched my grandpa get old and gray
And die;
Twenty-nine years later, my mother,

Old and gray, took her place,
And died….

They are no more, nor shall be—not,
Not in all the Cosmos again;
As if two fires were put out—now dead.

They lay dead on infinite ground,
And now it is my turn to die;
And yes, yes yours…

5/2/04 St. Paul, Minnesota, USA

67) Wingless Drunkard

Black prayers, wingless angels sing—
Hastening, they stroll to meet
Drunkards….

April 24 2004 [Quito-Ecuador]

68) Just a Moment

Just a moment, just a moment,
Then the moments pass away,
Then you fade….

6:05 AM May 2 2004, St. Paul, Minnesota

69) Longings

I long for the unseen;
Curious for the material world,
My delights have been uncountable.

In my dreams of slumber,
Almost strangely I’m withdrawn:
Like a vampire.

12:35 AM, May 2 2004, skies over Peru

70) Devils Dice

At times the fool
Makes his promise—
With fires of Hell
Beneath his feet:
Nearby stands the Devil
With heavy dice.

Ah! When he wakes
Unto his tricks—
Bound he thinks
And bound he feels,
But wise
He flees, like phantoms
In the skies,
And hides like gophers
In the hills

Far, far, far away.

June 2004

71) Blindash

Why is it so hard
For man to look back
At his past?
It is as if Pompeii
Itself
Has covered his eyes
With ash—
Ash and stone
(Blinding toxic gas)
From birth to death—
Yes, O yes—as if,
As if time itself
Was wrapped in it.

May 10 2004, St. Paul, Minnesota

72) Wisdom Lost

Wisdom once gained
Can be lost the same:
By blindness of impiety,
And the obtuseness of sin.

73) A Place Remembered

A place remembered,
A dream once dreamed,
Is never the same?—
When one goes back
For a visit.
If it is of childhood,
Leave it as it is,
Keep dreaming:
You’ll never outlive it.

These two poems were considered by Poetry.com as the very best, and they convey good craftsmanship

74) Satan’s Tricks

Strange as it may seem,
Satan has a scheme:
Have you belief in him,
Obsessively, or not at all;
Or have you lived neurotically
In the past or for the future,
(But never within the present);
Or have you got involved
Compulsively in something
Dissociative—
Like drugs or alcohol,
Gambling or sex: they’re all
His tricks.

May 6 2004, St. Paul, Minnesota

75) A Dream of Mother

I dreamt a dream:
I saw my mother last night,
In old surroundings; when
A strange occurrence befell me
(Beneath the expiring,
Haunting light):

The dead world came alive,
A voice—
A shadow—
Came, engulfed me;
In my sadness she appeared—
In my gloom…

Touched like a falling star!

Quietly, I remembered—
She had died.

April 12 2004, Lima, Peru

76) Nikita Khrushchev

In his backyard, with fading brown grass,
He sat, with his dog by his porcelain side.
The old man was stone still, still sadly alive,
As if in a trance, for once—once,
Not so long ago, he ruled the world.

77) Love’s Hour

Love has had its hour,
As has this rime—
Both are sunk in the seas of time.

April 16 2004, Lima, Peru
For the Eldritch Dark

78) The Surrogate Devil

An old man’s fancy of perfect love
With no emotional clutter,
With a young, fresh girl:
With dreams of erotic desires:
Desires with wished women

In his nightmares, he creates
The strong woman
He no longer wishes to see

He calls them devil girls
Unknowingly: Why? He finds
The surrogate mother, calls her
Perfect love...

But soon that dissolves—

He sees the transformation—
The doomed, doomed love;
Love, yes! that love—
That love that never appeared
Before, before submissiveness

No longer the nurturer,
She doesn't care—

Seldom is the survivor of such
A calamity admired—
Or remembered; therefore
(In this poem anyway)
He dies alone.…

June 23 2004, #315

Legends

79) The Moche of Chan Chan

Sealed by those long ago—
A record held within it shadows,
The Moche died: sunless,
Lost and alone—
Within the fancy gloom of Chan Chan;

Whose gloom is hidden behind:
Unharvestable orchards,
Unretrievable light—
And unto all comes death.

Note: Written about the archeological site in Northern Peru.

80) King Arthur’s Sin

His sword was black
As midnight sin;
His heart a stone
His eyes were blue,
As in Arctic ice,
And his blood
Was made of gloom.

Throughout the isles
He conquered all,
Roman, Saxon, Gaul,
Cutting wings off
Midnight beings
And burying
The grandsire foul.

July 2004 #341