Song of Night’s Ocean

Time breaks on the rusted shore

The black and bloody foam of eternal death

washes over squirming halsium life

The pyramidal event horizon


A gaping hole torn by eldritch hand

malignance given form

set free

sentient unlife thrives 

in the sub-nature of reality

just beneath the flesh of worlds

spinolthalamic parasites

ascend the puppets’ strings

they dance to cancerous tunes

to rotting eternity

we dance


Saelin-Captain of the Pikemen-Stanza I

Then came the Calvary

Horns blaring, mounts slithering

Arrows of curses, Bows of bone

Masks of jade and gold, Visages of Yig

Met with out pikes

Hymns of blood, dirges of pain

Saelin, pike captain, in his cloak of violet violent ermine

stood with silvered pike-the serpent a hissing giant beast

Yig does no love those who fail-Down came the rider

Scales iron, fangs steel-the pikemen cannot hold

But Saelin. . .

No Sin

In a hollow universe

built on random and failing artifice

there is no sin greater than harm

an existence forged without consent

harm is essential from the spark of sentience

all are born short of the glory of nothing

and steeped in the harm of life

there is no absolution

save self-annihilation

and even then

what if sentience cannot die?

Songs of the Caverns-I. The Feasts of Ghouls

The dark sweetens all it touches

Every sound is the call of prey

padding feet on stone, whimpering in the nook

brings our eternally starving kind

Silent if we desire, laughing if not, weeping more often than no

Every scent bears the rot of death

leading us to the old and new

the dreaming and entombed

no truth in difference

Taste is ambrosial

we consume as gods

the cold dark giants

raging empyrean serpents

Lightless sight guides our hunt

trails of dream a deep red

spore of death brilliant green

redoubts of the damned ficirus yellow

Only our flesh is truly dead

All cold stone

sex pointless, joyless, hateful

the creep of decay inwards/seeping outwards

The dark smothers all it touches

Siege of Carcosa-Stanza I

The cloak of night

draped on bloody fields

Fires fail to stop

the hungry dark

Come razor rain

consuming teeth, poisoned tongues

Winged plague, Hierophant’s gamble

ill-lit moon-flying terrors

The screeching of death

The horrors sing

The Attack

Breaking of night’s hold

A charging army

Racing the birth of light

trumpets call the gravediggers, the pyre builders

Come metal rain

thirsty soldiers, lusting swords

Through endless day-murderous victors

The chants of war

The bards sing


Come oily rain

drowning sin, cleansing filth

Sacred corpses, holy rot

Moonless night-carrion men

The dirges of Esif

The towers sing


Rise poisoned sun

A sick empty city

Fog swirls on horse flesh

laughing men’s mouths

Come vicious rain

burning revenge, rending love

Invasive solders, abyssal spite

Watchful noon-sons of Shurash

Songs of the Caverns

The infidels sing


Poetry and Meaning

I’ve been asked often: What does it mean? Why did you write this?

I am of the opinion that poetry (any medium of art really) does not require a meaning. In truth creating anything with a meaning is a fruitless and ultimately frustrating venture. Anything created-and then shared immediately loses all meaning. Being observed/absorbed by even one other set of eyes rips intention from the piece and puts in its place the preconceptions and interpretations of the audience, as nothing can be viewed in a void.

Ultimately this means that any creation is (and should be) a personal and private moment. If you do create something with meaning, and your audience asks you, “What does it mean?” Then you have failed as an artist, they have not failed as an audience. The sharing of art is the devaluation of art. . . if you have any intentional meaning behind the creation.

Creating something without meaning, creating it only because at that moment it entertains you, is the only true creative experience. That you share, that you can send in the crowded (overflowing) zeitgeist of the human psyche and not have it pulled apart. Creating something without intention and letting it loose you can only see additions, others will build on the imaginary framework of your creation and imbue wholly with their ideas, their interpretations that are ultimately as flawed and ill-conceived as that member of the audience.