O, the Forests of Bhak’khu

October 22, 2016 § 1 Comment

I heard the song a Traveller sang
Which from his mouth with sadness rang
His words befouled with acrid tang
From the forests of Bhak’khu

He told me first of paths he trod14650165_10153858498955334_9193476899983822235_n
‘Cross singing sands and peat-brown sod
Away from men and dying gods
To the forests of Bhak’khu

He walked on heath and moor and fen
Tramped through valley, creek and glen
Past monuments built before men
Knew the forests of Bhak’khu

One morn upon a mist-cloaked hill
He spied an omen, dark and ill,
A corpse who told him ‘Death waits still
In the forests of Bhak’khu’.

‘You may speak true but my reply
Is everything that’s lived must die.
If Death’s both here and there then why
‘ware the forests of Bhak’khu?

The corpse collapsed back into dust
As time turns iron into rust
The Traveller knew then that he must
Reach the forests Bhak’khu

On sun-scorched pan of glass and salt
A serpent, basking, cried out ‘Halt!’
‘No man of wisdom, nor base dolt
Seeks the forests of Bhak’khu’

‘Return forthwith from whence ye came
Renounce your wealth, renounce your name
Renounce all hope that you might tame
All the forests of Bhak’khu’

‘O snake,’ our Traveller did beseech
‘Beguile me not with fork-tongued speech
For the fastness I shall surely breach
Of the forests of Bhak’khu’

The serpent hissed a venom-curse
‘For good or ill, for all things worse
Your sight will fade, your heart will burst
In the forests of Bhak’khu!’

And with such words it disappeared
As shadows spake that evening neared
The Traveller knew why many feared
Of the forests of Bhak’khu.

One night a slinking, jet-black cat
Whispered softly, slyly that
‘You’ll be as tasty as a rat
In the forests of Bhak’khu’

A girl-child wrapped in blood-stained rags
Flanked by a dozen toothless hags
Said ‘What are kings and all their flags
‘Gainst the forests of Bhak’khu?’

Yet nothing kept him from his road
Not howling shaman daubed with wode
Nor armoured knight of solemn code
From the forests of Bhak’khu

He walked for weeks and months and years
His hair grew long around his ears
His eyes were filled with countless tears
For the forests of Bhak’khu

He saw again the corpse, the knight
The cat that came in dead of night
The girl whose rags were once as bright
As the forests of Bhak’khu

They watched him from beside the trail
The knight stood strong, the girl-child frail
The cat smiled at the corpse’s wail
‘O, the forests of Bhak’khu!’

The serpent and the shaman came
Once each to mock his quest again
‘All you’ll find is loss and pain
In the forests of Bhak’khu’

‘Leave me visions, spirits all!
On my quest I’ll never stall
Even if you raise a wall
Round the forests of Bhak’khu!’

With darkness then the land was crowned
Pale ash rained down, without a sound
The Traveller knew he now was bound
For the forests of Bhak’khu

Yet slowly came into his view
A place he realised he knew
‘What is this place that comes in lieu
Of the forests of Bhak’khu?’

A town, with buildings tumbled down
Ash-stained corpses on the ground
And blackened trees grown all around
‘Like the forests of Bhak’khu…’

Down street and alley he did roam
Past crumbled well, ‘neath shattered dome
He gabbled that ‘This looks like home
Not the forests of Bhak’khu’

He found me huddled not far off
My ravaged body bound with cloth
‘What is this place?’ I spat, then coughed.
‘’tis the forests of Bhak’khu’

The Traveller gasped, fell to his knees
‘It cannot be! Recant ye, please!
My soul, my life! My heart doth freeze!
Curse the forests of Bhak’khu’

He told me then of serpent, child
The knight most stern, the shaman wild
The night-time cat, the corpse reviled
And the forests of Bhak’khu

Loss and pain his prize, they said
I made for him a ragged bed
In moonlight cold he lay there, dead
In the forests of Bhak’khu

I heard the song a Traveller sang
Which from his mouth with sadness rang
His words befouled with acrid tang
From the forests of Bhak’khu.

Vortex Lodge

November 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

they cant see that the sky splits open where the light comes through and fire drips down like the putrid drool of a leper it burns and the GREAT HAND reaches down to shovel bodies into its maw when people squabble and squander and sit with their coins as devils dance in the streets leering in the windows grasping at the children with hands of coal and twigs theyre burning theyre burning and none of them notice that they burn as their hair dances in the flames that no wind nor rain can extinguish and the yellow is brighter than gold the red brighter than blood

Vortex Lodge

Oneiroscopic capture of a Vortex Lodge waysign in Pittlebone Alley, The Riddle.

and nobody sees and nobody sees the blue ghosts walking through walls walking through doors and their hands are all missing and the eyes are all missing and their keening sorrow hides behind the mist in the corners of the streets so only the sad ones hear it only the vacants and the babies in the wells floating in the water with their frogs and rattles of teeth and bones their only chattels their only homes

we see these things and only we the ones of the vortex lodge the walkers in spaces the lingerers between and the subtle touch of nothing.

Aleatorician

April 2, 2014 § Leave a comment

In the dream there are dice. Three black dice with silver spots, sat in a silver bowl. They blur and then stop, landing as each requires.

One is one, the group in itself, and in the whole is strength.

One is four, each party alone, and in the pieces is change.

One is six, their fulfilment, and in this end is a beginning.

All are eleven, the duke of numbers, which holds only itself in itself and no brooks other. And so in the dream there’s a dream-tale of a leader, with his party, set out on a path to the House of Ruin. And so the dice are cast, the scene is set.

Plaster

October 24, 2013 § 1 Comment

Man lies on bed. Stares. Wall. Plaster peels, partly. Echo of rain on tin, on wood, on tin again. Always noise yet not-noise persistence of indefinite sound. Hand moves, retreats. Wind on glass, glass on frame. Creak of elsewhere. Rafter. Laughter, perhaps. Old dust and webs. Thin blanket of age. Left, lost life. Guttering.

Blood Hand

Man lies on bed. Stares. Ceiling. Plaster peels, moreso. Shadows sit, soft. Rust rhythm, removed. Grasp of light, gasp of lightness. Twilight. Darkness. Warmth fades, cooling.

Man lies on bed. Stares. Nowhere.

Plaster peels. Crumbles. Collapses.

Started

August 11, 2013 § Leave a comment

“Still missing?”

“Pardon?”

“The cog? Is it still missing?”

“It was a tooth that was missing. Not the cog. And yes, it’s still missing.”

“Ah. Not good.”

“Things don’t just re-appear like that.”

“But they disappear like that?”

“You’re not helping, you know.”

“Sorry.”

“Yes, well… What are you working on?”

“Just a poem, Some thoughts.”

“Read it out then.”

“I’d rather not, it’s not finished yet. I’m not exactly sure it’s started, to be honest.”

“How can it not be started? You just said you’re working on it!”

“Maybe I’m working on starting it.”

They’re there

June 18, 2013 § Leave a comment

Who are They?

They’re everywhere these days, aren’t They? They say this and They say that but They never really do much, do They? They stop other people from doing things, that’s for sure, but they never do much Themselves. Apart from writing signs. Closing doors. Locking up the very world itself.

Image

So, who are They? They’re not Us, that’s all We know.

Or do We?

Who are They?

Are They You?

bsmnt

May 30, 2013 § Leave a comment

Y fckn lttl sht whn wll y fckn lrn y sty n th fckn bsmnt r y gt nthr fckn btng y fckn lttl drty bstrd nml dnt fckn cr fr fcks sk nne fckn crs y fckn mk m sck y fckn lttl sht.

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