we address a timeless curse, one which bears no name;
no frame of reference for this great mystery, the jackal's teat,
we who are in search of the stoutest pulp ever conceived.
these eidola- stark, magnificent figures erupting in
silent, expressionist slices, lifelike and knife-like and
quicker than mercury and more abrupt than screams or sighs which
echo through some humid marble corridor long forgotten and buried,
harboring faded litanies and the dreams of titans among the
stone-ghosts of Thebes, where memories slide against one another
like snakes, like squid, pressing upward to erupt gelatinous
into the soon-forgotten pages of some adept, savant, or sailor.
all that we call history pressed into amber and bursting from the soil,
nipping at our naked calves and ankles like bog-bred mosquitoes,
feeding our insomnia and begging with wide, white eyes to revise
entire eras: the Dark Ages and the Enlightenment.
Crowley's Aeon of Horus and McKenna's Eschaton.
the Renaissance and the 13th Baktun.
all bleed together before this nameless altar and are
well-documented by headless, hag-ridden scribes.
great formless slugs are chewing holes through all that we know.
there are pale, deformed humanoids cavorting in our peripheral vision.
we address the anonymous engine which towers before us,
genuflect in the dazzling sunlight, grimace in supplication,
our words fish-bait in a lake of stars.