Come live with me in the trees.
We will make wanting strong wine and strange music,
spurn order and all its trappings.
Did any of that shit ever make you happy—
those walls you bought, your passing little pleasures?
Come, raid these wild lands.
Balk at no offense; bite neck and press
broken bones through dirt.
My strength is my right, as is yours.
Never again apologize for the strength of your arm.
I would never pull my punches—
not with you, my sibling.
Death is close here. As it should be.
We will walk with the water as far as it goes.
Wind-loving folk as once we were.
We will bring far horizons to heel on nought
but will and want.
With mountains for fire, we will crisp the hides of sacred game—
lashings of red meat seared with iron.
We will fell the grand stags of the sun;
great tombs mark passing fierce beauty.
I can't piss on my own land for fear
of my responsibility to the eyes of others.
If that's the bar that's been set,
I pronounce myself a man of frail loyalty.
I want to burn through these green lush lands
like a shooting star,
crashing beyond some far-flung hill,
to be discovered in wonder by some bookish little fellow
far from now.
Give fully in;
let mad truth bloom in brilliant hues of heresy,
a beacon roared with profane vigor.
Eat what claw and fang will find.
Awash in clean night air,
eyes shining beneath the thrush.
Come live with me in the trees.
The Isle of the Dead.
Proud copse of evergreen trees bound by clean-hune white stone.
Lazy ancient waves lap its forlorn shore.
Such nourishment necessary for this dense thicket of green-life.
What forces here prevade?
The Isle of the Dead.
Names carved in Cyprus.
Will I walk among the bows of these somber stalks of life?
Will I press back the dark and seek,
not wander, seek.
Strive.
Drag, dig, drudge.
A frenzied toil claiming
all I have to spend or wish.
Or wander, without aim.
Without promise,
but without aim.
Seek hidden voices among old waves.
The Dead Dreamer
We rattle about in vain,
thrall to the corpse-mind.
Our conscripted, rotting God,
serenely hanging in darkest burning night—
wreathed in greater ruin.
Dead eyes imagined dreaded life
on worlds without number.
Wherling black fate at the center of all,
it begins:
all that is known and remembered.
Unwalked paths etched in black granite.
Creation from prediction, the folds of this mind,
bearer of all that is.
Life to thought
so that ideas may become bubbling flesh.
For one to know all
is for all to be one.
Nine, bright against the black.
Harrolds. Arcons. Three.
Thus, Thee, We.
Twelve, violent order,
Bound savagery.
The gloved maul.
Nine, bright against the black.
End of all dark.
Nito, youngest of the Nine.
Last, greatest calamity.
Much turned.
His hue, the hierarchy of heavens.
The madstar.
Dor, first of the Nine.
Bereaver, breaft, bearer of corpses.
He stands now,
At the beginning of endings;
The black star.