Terminal House: Last Lodge: May 15, 2011

15.5.11

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...

PROTOENCYCLOPEDIST, CODEXORCIST & LYCANTHROPIC HOUSEKEEPER

I lay in an invisible place with dogs and devils and dragons in the cellar of a house made from the bone, skin and hair collected from my headless God, who rambles through the empty worlds above, between and below. My body and mind for you as you seek what you need to sustain yourself, my headless somnambulist Lord of endless cycles of redeath and unbirth, as I sleep, dream and die and regenerate from dust and ash and salt and blood and shadow for you. My blankets are sewn from the cloth of maps that reveal the secret tunnels of the Nine Circles found in the now abandoned and sunken towers of Heaven. My pillowcases are stuffed with the feathers of fallen angels and the mildewed pages from the forbidden books inscribed with the unspeakable names of those that watch and wait as their ladders spire into the sky from the bottomless pits of Hell. During this first and last year of antitime times nine, siphon these days with me in a place where time does not touch. I will return your head.