The Woodchopper’s Henchmen
Fear has sickened them. A Wound by something—, viper–shaped: it has gnawed its way into his brain. And to be quite frank, never will the wounded reptilian know a moment of peace until he fads into the mist of silence, and becomes a trophy for royalty down in the Woodchopper’s domain; likened to all human things, we captures plant wooden veins.
It happens day or night; for myself, I live in a vague and horrific shadow, looking for dreams that lurk within ones consciousness; my friends, so called friends, for I must go along with them: nightmares, chaotic life can be an everlasting think, for the daydreamer I wish to greet.
Once sleep was a gift: a privileged feast for me: now it is a feared and haunted world; isonomic blitz. And those who know me: flee I tell them, gibbering on my ghoul like soul; with howling nameless obscenities, wanting my ear to find the demonic world for them, forever on earth. Wishing to be something more than what they were made for: with primitive, black powers galore.
Who am I, I am a man, I mean, was—I still think like one, perhaps I still am—for I was normal: with a history that was solid—and life experiences were common, all cut away like an angelical cord (like Satan’s was), to join the reptilian race in the pale abyss from which: yelping, and garnishing of teeth never cease: we are the monsters: nameless monsters of the deep.
So what haunts me, you ask (?) ushered in by the sound of horror, which I utter. A strange behavior do you not think (?) you who have savage tastes, a pale twilight, who shuts down with a chill of the wind, creeping up his spine from a drowning sea; you who like ordinary, now here is the strange: me. Primitive, describes me, but powerfully felt. I shall transport you into a darker age, mine, and you will look to see the huge shadows, the hairy dying, the man-like grasses that stem from the woods; we cut you down, once we plant you in the ground. We creep up, when you are tall trees, with hatches: grip you, then reshape you: eternally.
At such a moment, in such an ambiance, I will stand, and suddenly—if not interrupted—I will ghoul-like, or demon-like, or some beastly creature-like, I will appear on your narrow shadow: not far from where you are planted, head down, on this preoccupied ground, I swing my hat (off), and ax, and like dust and hair, and woodchips of mass, I make a trail of blood out for your figure: tree and grass, tree and grass.
What can I do, I’m the Henchman, the Master’s Woodchopper, and you are the wood, a stocky typical flesh wood, bent and gnarled from old age, on earth. Sometimes I will stand on a neighbors shambling shoulders, where fagots are eating his roots, and as I fall I cop plainly into the twilight shadow you leave in front of me; boredom has its paroxysms.
—I did meet one, a bright, blue-eyed fella, so often found in the Midwest, of the United States; up there in Minnesota, where there are a lot of trees to cut, and people too.
Now this man was very close to me in the woods, he was kind I guess in his own way, he stopped to let me pass on the path. The blue eyed man jerked his head up, and he seemed to be aware of my tasks, perhaps some kind of second sight. He wanted to transpose my head on his. I read his mind. Peculiar was his gesture, frozen now in a stance, as I walked up the path. Lips quivering, terrible; he screamed: ‘unseen beast’ (that’s me I said, with a reptilian sneer): he lurked up, and ran toward me, ah yes, I was bewildered, but not shrieking, I made no move to stop him, saw him coming, his blue eyes glaring at me wildly though the dusty path).
“Stop,” I said to him, “lest you want to be a root,” I was most kind, for he gave me the right away. But he was approaching me quite fast.
“Devil man,” he cried. And my old ax came out from my hidden side.
“You’re mad,” I yelled back at him from, he now being but a few feet from me; but he only laughed insanely.
“Die, die, die,” he cried, and laughed like an unharnessed horse: not sure if that was for him or me, I was dead to the fleshly world anyhow, just on an everlasting mission.
Now standing next to me: face to face, his eyes were no longer blue, fading to root-darkness; my passion got strong, and I shouted:
“Step back! “ Assured I would soon chop him up.
“You are not my breed,” I told this needing to be: a devil-man.
His eyes turned to gray, and then dark-yellowish-red: no longer was there a healthy tint to his deathly smile.
“I am not insane,” he yelled, standing in front of me.
“My place is no place for men like you,” I said, as he followed me down the path. My speed at night increased, as he followed, until I was deep in the woods, of ‘noname’. He thought it was still in Minnesota, but it was not. If there ever was an intended plot to this, he was becoming it.
A rumble of the earth now slacked his pace, and I slowed down to the star lit twinkling of the night. We were now in the forest of the Woodchopper: my ground; and all the roots and men were plainly not visible to him; they were (to me of course, and to be :) furnished furniture, in the King’s room, the maniac and well—, my un- mannered ruler.
“I’ll rest,” I old the fella, and down we sat. “You are welcome to stay as long as you want,” so I said to him with a ‘thanks,’ for giving me the courtesy, of letting me pass first (ahead of him) on the path, but restless now I was, and was hell; for hell wanted to see what next would transpire. (They also were famished for want of entertainment.)
Unimpressed, I felt over saturated with his bellowing for his passion, his passion being an upside down crucifix, around his skinny chicken-limp neck. All I knew was my king wanted a new wooden throne or perhaps a chair (since he didn’t like his bellowing either)—and I needed to grow the roots: fleshly roots are what make a demons throne you know. He shook his head at me, and I knew he could see: see—what now, was coming; and he leaped in the air, to run, and my ax cut him down (like a bloody hound): enough problems I said, with such a voice like his; thus, I cut out his tongue as well. And now he’s silent, dwelling in the lodge (as a chair), deep in the Woodcutters Hell.
(#939 1/2/2005)
Fear has sickened them. A Wound by something—, viper–shaped: it has gnawed its way into his brain. And to be quite frank, never will the wounded reptilian know a moment of peace until he fads into the mist of silence, and becomes a trophy for royalty down in the Woodchopper’s domain; likened to all human things, we captures plant wooden veins.
It happens day or night; for myself, I live in a vague and horrific shadow, looking for dreams that lurk within ones consciousness; my friends, so called friends, for I must go along with them: nightmares, chaotic life can be an everlasting think, for the daydreamer I wish to greet.
Once sleep was a gift: a privileged feast for me: now it is a feared and haunted world; isonomic blitz. And those who know me: flee I tell them, gibbering on my ghoul like soul; with howling nameless obscenities, wanting my ear to find the demonic world for them, forever on earth. Wishing to be something more than what they were made for: with primitive, black powers galore.
Who am I, I am a man, I mean, was—I still think like one, perhaps I still am—for I was normal: with a history that was solid—and life experiences were common, all cut away like an angelical cord (like Satan’s was), to join the reptilian race in the pale abyss from which: yelping, and garnishing of teeth never cease: we are the monsters: nameless monsters of the deep.
So what haunts me, you ask (?) ushered in by the sound of horror, which I utter. A strange behavior do you not think (?) you who have savage tastes, a pale twilight, who shuts down with a chill of the wind, creeping up his spine from a drowning sea; you who like ordinary, now here is the strange: me. Primitive, describes me, but powerfully felt. I shall transport you into a darker age, mine, and you will look to see the huge shadows, the hairy dying, the man-like grasses that stem from the woods; we cut you down, once we plant you in the ground. We creep up, when you are tall trees, with hatches: grip you, then reshape you: eternally.
At such a moment, in such an ambiance, I will stand, and suddenly—if not interrupted—I will ghoul-like, or demon-like, or some beastly creature-like, I will appear on your narrow shadow: not far from where you are planted, head down, on this preoccupied ground, I swing my hat (off), and ax, and like dust and hair, and woodchips of mass, I make a trail of blood out for your figure: tree and grass, tree and grass.
What can I do, I’m the Henchman, the Master’s Woodchopper, and you are the wood, a stocky typical flesh wood, bent and gnarled from old age, on earth. Sometimes I will stand on a neighbors shambling shoulders, where fagots are eating his roots, and as I fall I cop plainly into the twilight shadow you leave in front of me; boredom has its paroxysms.
—I did meet one, a bright, blue-eyed fella, so often found in the Midwest, of the United States; up there in Minnesota, where there are a lot of trees to cut, and people too.
Now this man was very close to me in the woods, he was kind I guess in his own way, he stopped to let me pass on the path. The blue eyed man jerked his head up, and he seemed to be aware of my tasks, perhaps some kind of second sight. He wanted to transpose my head on his. I read his mind. Peculiar was his gesture, frozen now in a stance, as I walked up the path. Lips quivering, terrible; he screamed: ‘unseen beast’ (that’s me I said, with a reptilian sneer): he lurked up, and ran toward me, ah yes, I was bewildered, but not shrieking, I made no move to stop him, saw him coming, his blue eyes glaring at me wildly though the dusty path).
“Stop,” I said to him, “lest you want to be a root,” I was most kind, for he gave me the right away. But he was approaching me quite fast.
“Devil man,” he cried. And my old ax came out from my hidden side.
“You’re mad,” I yelled back at him from, he now being but a few feet from me; but he only laughed insanely.
“Die, die, die,” he cried, and laughed like an unharnessed horse: not sure if that was for him or me, I was dead to the fleshly world anyhow, just on an everlasting mission.
Now standing next to me: face to face, his eyes were no longer blue, fading to root-darkness; my passion got strong, and I shouted:
“Step back! “ Assured I would soon chop him up.
“You are not my breed,” I told this needing to be: a devil-man.
His eyes turned to gray, and then dark-yellowish-red: no longer was there a healthy tint to his deathly smile.
“I am not insane,” he yelled, standing in front of me.
“My place is no place for men like you,” I said, as he followed me down the path. My speed at night increased, as he followed, until I was deep in the woods, of ‘noname’. He thought it was still in Minnesota, but it was not. If there ever was an intended plot to this, he was becoming it.
A rumble of the earth now slacked his pace, and I slowed down to the star lit twinkling of the night. We were now in the forest of the Woodchopper: my ground; and all the roots and men were plainly not visible to him; they were (to me of course, and to be :) furnished furniture, in the King’s room, the maniac and well—, my un- mannered ruler.
“I’ll rest,” I old the fella, and down we sat. “You are welcome to stay as long as you want,” so I said to him with a ‘thanks,’ for giving me the courtesy, of letting me pass first (ahead of him) on the path, but restless now I was, and was hell; for hell wanted to see what next would transpire. (They also were famished for want of entertainment.)
Unimpressed, I felt over saturated with his bellowing for his passion, his passion being an upside down crucifix, around his skinny chicken-limp neck. All I knew was my king wanted a new wooden throne or perhaps a chair (since he didn’t like his bellowing either)—and I needed to grow the roots: fleshly roots are what make a demons throne you know. He shook his head at me, and I knew he could see: see—what now, was coming; and he leaped in the air, to run, and my ax cut him down (like a bloody hound): enough problems I said, with such a voice like his; thus, I cut out his tongue as well. And now he’s silent, dwelling in the lodge (as a chair), deep in the Woodcutters Hell.
(#939 1/2/2005)
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 5:57 PM
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