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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Andrew D. Gable" data-source="post: 1597287" data-attributes="member: 4144">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'dWe stumble through darkened streetsAnd abandoned thoroughfaresReaching out like blind men, we try in vain To find our way: to find the lightSomething worth living for, something to fightBut everything is darkNo light greets our eyes todayWe babble onward through nighted cities,And we disappear into darkSomething has departed: something has fledWhat are these things, we ask ourBlind seers, idiot sagesThey are only our souls, our reasoningWithout inspiration, weFail; we die; we find the daemon hungry.The corpuscular daemonWrithing, begging to be fedIt finds our hands malleable, pliantLife-blood pulsing, a city’s veinsArterial streets full of dead thingsOf opiated souls andWarm bodies.  It possesses, asks:We comply, we do not resistIts whims, we say, "The daemonKnows the best, the daemon dominates."Our jaws set, our eyes hardenWe see what the daemon’s hungerMakes of us.  We fear, we quakeWe break down and we shakeTho’ as the blade flashes, we know the daemon’s slaked.</blockquote>