Terminal House: Last Lodge: The Arks

29.6.12

The Arks

Subspace astronauts,
Trapped in their escape pods,
Wading in circular time streams,
Cromlechs on Earth,
Gathering moss,
Monolithic conduits,
To genetic space stations,
Abandoned,
And orbiting Sirius.
Now housed in great mud huts,
Kept safe by Dogon cartographers,
And those immune to imprinting.
Their complex spiral ladders,
Excavated,
Synthesized,
And spliced,
With symbiotic species,
By surgeons of a secret society.

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.