corrente

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O' foul and scabrous demon
Flung to northern patches, unleashed
and burning hearts for heat
Away to empty cages, ribs split like wood
in shocking sleep He rides to you
The master of the elder tribes
To hind parts clenching tearing torn
The limpid flesh of failing men

Embrace the conquerors' lavish feast:
a table of the animals
a place of broken things
and friends made meat
Oh, John, sit this night in sacrifice
the nails of certitude drive through your head
The angels of iron and death

Come forth, lord whimsy
let us all laugh and sing of despair
and hopeless sightless loveless eyes
it is a trick of The Bad Magician
that dreams once conjured
do not abate
and sorrow's ease will not arrive

In darkness the howls of vanquished men
echo upon echo in gaping jaws
In John shall be the night thunders
in shadows too thick for walls:
Made like casket toys for children, singing
Singing to John: my gift is
the lyrics, made your curse
unwrapped in the bleak time
the alone time
men of stature to dust unmourned
aught but shards
the splinters of a mind deceased

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This cursed episode of The Bad Magician inspired by General JC Christian's post on a sulphuric slag heap of what has been rumored to have once been a human being.

Sleep tight, Johnny. Sleep tight.

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