Very weird poems I wrote.

[Andrew D. Gable]

I guess this is the best board for this kinda stuff; this is some rather odd poetry that I've been writing here lately. I'm not really sure where a lot of it's coming from, once I picked up a few Iain Sinclair books these all just came to me.

*****

Dead Cities: or a Social Disease and a Daemon Slak'd

We stumble through darkened streets
And abandoned thoroughfares
Reaching out like blind men, we try in vain
To find our way: to find the light
Something worth living for, something to fight

But everything is dark
No light greets our eyes today
We babble onward through nighted cities,
And we disappear into dark
Something has departed: something has fled

What are these things, we ask our
Blind seers, idiot sages
They are only our souls, our reasoning
Without inspiration, we
Fail; we die; we find the daemon hungry.

The corpuscular daemon
Writhing, begging to be fed
It finds our hands malleable, pliant
Life-blood pulsing, a city’s veins
Arterial streets full of dead things

Of opiated souls and
Warm bodies. It possesses, asks:
We comply, we do not resist
Its whims, we say, "The daemon
Knows the best, the daemon dominates."

Our jaws set, our eyes harden
We see what the daemon’s hunger
Makes of us. We fear, we quake
We break down and we shake
Tho’ as the blade flashes, we know the daemon’s slaked.

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

A Crimson Altar, A Whyte Chapel

Once it was that we worshipped
Not at the altar of blood but of life
The shrines where we had knelt were clean and not sodden

But then that all changed for us, it
Was ruined by this thing we called a boon
Ruined by this gift, this civilizing gift

Blood rained down like manna from
Heaven; the virtuous were slain so
That this light could be brought unto them, given form

Years have passed by; our ages passed
Into oblivion. How we’ve fallen!
From the light into the dark we go, whyte into black

Misery coats our latter years
Men wander, lost, women selling themselves
The souls, they are wandering through streets of night’s shade

MAN AC ES CE MJK
JACKS MEN CAME

The names of the sacrifices
Those who die by the altar of murder
They died so that we might die, we might obliviate

Ourselves and all our works and dreams
All offered up to the bloody priest, that
Sanguinary bishop of heinous idolatry

We worship at a crimson altar
In a whyte chapel it is to be found
It calls to us, beckons us onward to its sin

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

And Now for Something Completely Different (Nicer)

Calon-y-Arianrhod

Once again, my love, he says,
Here we sit. You in your corner,
And I in mine. Here we sit.

The moon, that lunar wheel, rises
Above these nighted streets
Illuminating our town.

The heart of the moon is yours,
He says. Nurture it and let it
Flow out. Let it not be eclipsed.

The sun is the soul of man,
The moon the spirit of woman.
The old interplay played large.

Sun gods throughout history,
Moon goddesses their counterparts.
What says this, my love? Ponder!

Earthly love played on large scales
What was ordained by the gods
Must be. This thing, this love, must be.

Once again, my love, he says,
Here we sit. You in your corner,
And I in mine. Here we sit.

And ponder the mysteries, the
Stories of Arianrhod and Lud.