Your New Tower

Excavate order to establish your tables. A tooth seal, a bone seal, a skin seal and a blood seal. These grids will hold together elemental properties so that you may prepare your way. I will cast my shadow onto the ground you need and mark the earth with charts of stars that have long disappeared. The trajectories of their haunted orbits conceive a map, plotting inverted recollections, past peripheries and ground to break. The holes in time and space left by these undead stars secure the coordinates for your secret tower. A tower that will bring law to unclean mythologies and purify the stagnant wells of fallen gods. I will watch you mold your bricks from a distance for they are poison to me. From the wet dirt, a kabala of chalk, rust and ash will be the base. These methods, to make manifest a form that ladders into the sky unseen. Such are hoary and such are dormant beneath. Construct your foundation from the blueprints chattered to you by my pointed teeth in your sleep. Traverse this horizon, this visceral strata, these shifting plates and build your tower where the lines connecting all the holes in the sky meet. Pay attention to your footing. I will wear my heart heavy on my sleeve for you as you make this journey, build and weave new talismans together to fortify your house that connects the sky to the ground. 

Separate Tail from Stinger

Separate tail from stinger and domesticate these strange devices that trigger memories a thousand years old. Replace your falsified objects that glow in the dark and suck the warmth from your room and lay waste to your dreamtime. Activate invisible, sealed door locks by cutting the air with these violent tools on borrow from a museum built upon a mound of cicada shell. Slaughter your old tools, for they are slow from the drinking of your blood and sleep. Bury them and build a mound for them, for in time they too can become true and holy and violent. Return your borrowed bells and mirrors, magnifying glasses, and ladders and rings. Acquire new objects and milk antidotes from their poison teeth.

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.