Terminal House: Last Lodge: Aug 12, 2012

12.8.12

The Song of My Ship

A song so slight,

Sung by my sunken ship,

Shinning in my ears,

So bright,

And the sun will continue,

Continue to clean,

To release the spirit,

Deep inside of me.

Transmutation

Venom sac extraction,

And poison tooth to cap,

With clairvoyance,

And sparrow song,

Now clean.

Through the putrification of malice,

As premeditation dissolves,

And now pure,

Now never ashamed,

All violent murder cast upon a crux,

Constructed from the struggles of stars seen at sunrise.

Release tragedy into the sky,

Into the fiery sun to cleanse the world,

Far to see,

And farther to go,

Call signs and markings,

Make me leave.

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.