The Tragedy Of Man

"The tragedy of man,
is that he exists."

This Is My Song

Something new, perhaps....

This Is My Song

Every day
I wake up
in Hell

In Hell
is where
I stay

Every moment
the comfort
of Death

Is thousands
of miles
away

With eyes
shut tight
and fingers
crossed

I wonder
to whom
do I pray

To whom
to what
it matters
not

These areas
are always
gray

So the Sun
gives up
the Night
comes down

And swallows
the remnants
of Day

I lay
on my bed
to go back
to the place

With Nightmares
and Demons
at play.

Found Arcana IV

Moving on to the little black book. This particular text looks practically unscathed. There is slight shelf wear around the corners and the pages are yellowed with age, but most of the book is in fantastic shape, a real find. I may be wholly speculating, but this particular tome contains more verse, however it differs from the other texts in that these lines are less like poetry, almost ritualistic or mantric in tone. I have provided two examples from this faux grimoire.


The Nekromanser's Hymn

Onse 'round thee toombe stone walk'd
ne'er a palsy'd tongue doth spoke

Twise 'round thee toombe stone walk'd
ne'er a skeletal digit pok'd

Thrise 'round thee toombe stone walk'd
ne'er a spektral ancestore woke

Backward 'round thee toombe stone walk'd
bee damned, a devile hath yee invok'd!


Although the spellings above are either archaic or of poor diction, I decided to leave them in tact. The other verse is in latin; I was, however, able to find a tranlation by a man named Ludwig Prinn, a kind of scholar who studied occult texts while interred in a prison in Syria ca. 1291. Here are both the original text and its translation:


Mortalitas incertus

In tumbus in obscurum
ego fui haud oculus

Silentium per letalis
ego fui haud lingua

Penitus ut terra
ego fui haud auris

Resurrectio per votum
ego fui haud vereor...

tantum ieiunium.

-----------------------

Of Death Uncertain

Entombed in darkness
I have no eye

Silenced by mortality
I have no tongue

Interred to earth
I have no ear

Vivified with desire
I have no fear...

only hunger.

A Story Of Things That Tell Things

No explanations here. To paraphrase Popeye, "It is what it is!"

By request, a new post.

From a hand-scribbled piece of bloodstained parchment found in the ancestral New England home of Axel Larsson, I give you this bit of verse I discovered after the passing of my paternal grandfather. He too heard the "dream songs of the nightmare repertory"....

ways of men & beasts

in the reek

of caves

& the bosom

of the black earth

madness

copulates

the foul seed

of carnal things

writhe

& bleed

in the ways

of men

& beasts.

Found Arcana III

I've actually moved on to one of the other collections, again just skimming. This text was from a mustard colored book, probably goldenrod when it was first bound, faded with age and use. The first page of the collection has a number of symbols scribbled on it which remind me of the Led Zeppelin IV (or "ZoSo") album, which I find slightly amusing in the fact that most of the verses contained within have some sort of rhythm or lyrical sense to them. The following is one of the more coherent song/poems:

In (t)his image....

a silken heart

of spider borne

wretched & wrought

with blood forlorn

a rotted mind

of fabrique torn

blackened thoughts

rife with scorn

a broken face

of features shorn

a crown beset

by ring of thorns

a sickly soul

stretched & worn

in faith tatter'd

the star of morn.

I'm a bit loathe to imagine the melody (or lack thereof) that this hymn may be companion to...perhaps composed by a certain mute old man and his trusty viol?

Found Arcana Dos

Here's more from the little red book (my apologies to Arthur Lee). This one's page was a little faded but not so much as to obscure the letters. Some of the pages in the book suffer from water damage, but amazingly enough the inks are intact. This one's title is in latin and appears as a coda to the verse's original idea.

Acta est fabula

Crude. unlovely

peals of laughter

shake the timbers

of my soul.

Cruel, inhuman

voices stutter

in unclean timbres

debasing and cold.

Mindless, wander

as covetous djinni

render my spirit

a thousand fold.

Mocking, virile

tones archaic

delivered dirge-like

my story is told.

A bit Lovecraftian in tone, perhaps penned within the stygian morass of some poor Miskatonic scholar's mind. More to come....

Found Arcana

On one of my many jaunts to the local Goodwill I discovered a strange little tome wrapped in red fiber. It was one of several in a series of abbreviated texts, chapbooks perhaps, each bound in a different colored fiber. I snatched up all the little books, each embossed with a gold roman numeral on the front, for less than a trade paperback. Unfortunately they were only part of a complete set and seeing as that there is little publishing information contained within their pages, I am at a complete loss to identify them. I will try to provide more information in the future, however what I can surmise now is that these wee journals are old; the print is faded, the pages are made of a heavy stock and give off a foul, stale odor, like musk or fungus. Contained within these pages are random musings in poetry/prose format. Some of the passages are titled, others are not. There are no table of contents or page numbers to speak of, nor introduction or conclusion.

I've only had time to skim through the red book and have included two of the more interesting passages in this post.

The first has no title, just a quote:

"When the heart speaks, few listen.

When the mind speaks, few comprehend."

All that sparks the soul is spoken for

The thoughtless status quo maintained

with a slogan sought within the mantra

"mundane".

yet...

there must be those who hear the sonnets

must be some whom sing in praise

in twisted timbre

of forgotten things

of past denials

and occult meaning.

These secret songs, above, below,

inaudible betwixt the twain

for the chosen heard

in reverent mind

the illumined heart will sing.

Like the previous verse, the next one begins with a quote. Its tone is somewhat more ominous, but the imagery is bit less obtuse:

"In the lonliness of birth,

so we expire."

Against my best defenses

a void awaits

at every angle

and every moment.

As inevitable

as the gravity

of hope imploding

an infernal expanse

breeds

nourished by anxiety

sated by fear

its twisted bowels

hunger still.

Against my greatest show of strength

a ravenous maw persists

as ever

vigilant

...infinite.

I will post more as time permits.

"I live...again!"

I'm back, simply because I never left.