The Sleeper

Feeding on Time and moving through the roots and the ground and the dirt. The headless one, the sleeping one, the sleeper of rust, the chthonic sleep walker of paths, tunnels and ladders. These routes drowned by rust. He sleeps beneath standing waters gathered by holes in the sky. He prays to himself. Slumbering in deep Space without feet, or hands or body. The decapitated one, the dreaming one, the dreamer of dust, the starry haunter of caves, houses and lodges. These dwellings buried by dust. He dreams behind mirrors of mud. He listens for movement. The bone tunnels beneath the world of the Alpha, the skin room at the center of the world of the Omega, the walker and the haunter. The first one seeks and the last one waits. The last head of the hydra waits. That which now walks on all fours upside down seeks. Horns now grow from the head to hear. Hair grows from the body to see.


Of Magick

...and dust and mud and ash and salt and paper and wax and chalk and clay and rust and rust and rust...and blood and tooth and bone and shell and skin and shadow and hair and horn and seed and seed and seed...and black and purple and blue and red and green and yellow and white and brown and grey and grey and grey...and volcanoes and hives and altars and caves and wells and nests and pits and pools and mounds and mounds and mounds...and of time and of matter and of space and of memory and of chaos and of order and of sleep and of dream and of magick and of magick and of magick...


A Return to the Source

Drop down with magnifying glass, tweezers and candle, this ouroborian cycle of the Terminal House. Watch as it devours itself and those that watch. Surgically remove it, isolate it and place it in an envelope and lock with wax and seal. Give the envelope to Roman. The black outline of a circle turns inside, hidden between exorcised, primordial archetypes and barbarous barriers of racial recollection. It is the haunter of the orbits of long dead stars. It is the headless rambler seeking reunification. Inside the house, a hairy heart within a silver cage waits for its own absolution and Roman listens at the door. 

The Coming

Go out to the thickets and the marsh and the woods at the city walls and bring back the names whispered by the locusts and the bees and the moths and the wasps. Fill the halls of your house with these names and purify your walls, and ceilings and floors. Guests with see-through wings will sing of the forgotten and the lost. Their resonance in unison will seem as chants uttered by the mouths of men. Men whose tongues click and hum like deep, dark summer nights.

A New Pathway

No more crimes to the self in thought, intent or action. Defensive capabilities strategically optimal. Time to initiate new protocol. Sweep existing pathways clean and begin the construction of a more direct route. A more clean route. A singular path that will remain free of debris and trespassers. When complete, it will be a secret. Only animals that talk human in their sleep will be allowed to use it. The other paths will serve as decoys.