To the Nihilists that declare Beauty does not exist,
And to the Philistines that declare her to be dead
May I thus present, forthwith, this humble diatribe,
The most offensive thing, that either of them have read.
Simple strokes of ferrous ink, to the writer,
Is like unto the painter, dabs of turpentine,
In the process of the blending and mixing
Of colours, and hues of rhythms, and rhymes.
But a careless line written can strike or kill,
For words on a page are armies of great might
The pen could be the only thing to put a villain down
Or to finally, heroically, set things right.
For, you see, there never has seemed to be any closure
For the tortured souls, trapped in the glass,
Or for the shapeless white puffs up in the sky,
Or the shooting-stars here and gone, so fast.
They come, and they go, inside a shining beyond
Glanced at but briefly, in this Mirror of Illusion,
Dying in agony when a second passes,
Buried forever in shattered confusion.
Now what if, instead of dying, one could seal one's soul
In a stone, that would glow forever?
Encased in some precious metal hung about the neck
From one's loved ones, naught to be severed.
Euphoria can be bottled the glass it's inside will glow,
Gold and white, diamond and shine...
And once opened, it will turn anyones world around
Dead fruit could re-ripen on its vine.
The cloth dreams are cut from is anyone's guess;
It feels different to each person it might touch
A velvet, or a silk a satin or a damasque...
The finest materials made for it like it mattered that much.
In silence, one finds, there is an odd solace
A frigid bath, for the volcanic mind to cool,
And this great denouement is surprisingly subtle,
For the release from passions, so cruel.
Dying is a breathless art of extravagance
Not that living is any better, with all the vanity
That comes with the territory of having been born,
When one's life becomes such a calamity.
Wyverns of the Sun and dragons of the Moon
Radiate and phosphoresce in the drama of the hours
And though God Almighty regards Man as miniscule,
He might still tell his fellows "The Earth, she is ours!"
Man is an animal but only when he lacks charm
For an animal, has always a naked grace...
But all a man can be, is a pile of secrets,
Even when the beast has a mans face.
Elves and Fairies can dance, if the mind permits it
As a part of the Soul, that is called Innocence;
It is indeed, that which all who are lost strive for
Like no other lost memory, then or since.
The ruins of such sanity may still be found
Somewhere, if Fate should decide to rend
The curtains of Past and Present into pieces
To show a stainless soul, a reality to bend.
Between Daylight and Twilight is the rush of Chaos,
Which is a blend of the Light and the Dark
And from Dawn to Dusk, the atoms swarm together,
To be rendered for eternity as icy sparks.
Starlight sings the saddest songs,
Because they are the only lights above,
Spread few and far between in an infinite darkness,
Where the chances for peace and forgiveness are so slight.
Love itself is a rose, abloom,
In a walled garden at Midnight...
Fragrant and moonlit, in blissful silence
As accompaniment to the miasmic twilight.
In the gentle touch of a soft, quiet kiss
We might find the form of Life's great key:
To Love And Be Loved, engraved in gold
In the twilit bottom of a starry sea.
If two lovers were bid, to shimmer together
To dance in the sky as Auroras blue-pink, red-green
Then the whole world would turn out to see them,
To gaze in wonder, at that "True Love" really means.
Chrome is the metal of Speed itself;
Of acceleration, exhilaration, and the Machine
It is plated on rockets and flies heavier than air...
Silver streaks in the sky, a glimmering gleam.
Floating and gliding on satiny metal,
Industry and machinery become the new chic:
Gleaming futures of an artificial intelligence
In an endless steel landscape, unspeakably bleak.
The lasers will burn over dead and charred cities
That can only be seen by lunatics in the ivory towers
And ticking by, in the longing fever of insanity,
The Clock of Destiny, to which all must cower.
This could be the true vision of the End of Days
Streaming images of horrifying doom
For it is not the end of this planet, nor even of the culture...
It is an eternity of the mind, to be entombed.
The screen fades to black when the pictureshow's over
The film shown was a classic: one persons life...
But such daring Escapism cannot fully erase
All the problems now revealed, to become so rife.
The audience that watched it cat-called many times,
Like when the good guys managed to win the day...
But when the hero was impaled, on his own sword,
The crowd knew exactly just what to say.
One can describe Horror only in a hushed tone,
With a smirk, a wink, or a joke
Passing off nightmares as perfectly passe...
The punchline coming when on Fear, one chokes.
Awake not the dead, nor whistle in the graveyard,
But hold a breath, if you call a soul by name...
For if they call you back, then you are truly doomed,
To have fooled with such destiny untamed.
Then dare not to call back, those who sleep forever,
For such things should never be
To call back a loved one, is not to be fulfilled
It is instead, to call up cosmic horror in ghoulish glee.
Golden-skinned Prometheus once held the fire
Of Life of Birth of Creation
And yet that very glimmer he gave to the world
Carried with it, a fatal fascination.
For Science itself, was always Horror distilled
Leading to so many terrible things, unknown
The summoning of spirits, the perfection of poisons...
The reduction of a man, to a limp bag of bones.
The ancients once made great gold statues:
Such follies they were! With diamonds for eyes
And now they embellish Cadillacs the same way...
The only difference now, is the shape and size.
The doleful carvings left in primal stone
Bespeak an inner beauty, from the past
And of the people who dwelt in it, undaunted,
Knowing as they did, what would, or would not last.
The darker side of such things is long gone
All buried, in the long-forgotten crypts
Of Egypt never again to be looked upon
For all those who knew, now lie with it.
There was a time, when kings were Gods
And the Gods were mighty indeed
Now, as their heirs, we have strung-up puppets,
Whom to the Will of the People, must bleed.
Any inbred idiot can be crowned king,
And any glorified murderer may say he can reign
But there a very few that can be said to be a true leader,
Hailed as a Hero, with an immortal name.
Was a Visigoth noble because of his flaxen hair?
Were his crystal-blue eyes the envy of Rome?
More than likely not it was all in the tears
That those Goths shed, when they thought of home
For every barbarian that had ridden across rivers,
Across wooded plains and under endless skies at night,
They must still have remembered, somewhere in the past
A longing for ancient homeland, that still guided the sight.
Go out, go out, into the Midwinters night!
For it is that very silence of which Luther wrote
It is in that very silence that Mary quietly wept
It is in that silence that Evil was smote.
John the Baptist sobbed at the golden gates
Where gross Herod had locked him out
And soon, that old pervert would have his dance,
Wicked Salome would silence the mournful shout.
Job was the one whose finger, so pointed,
Gave humanity that leverage it had needed for so long
For with one simple question "Why?"
The Almighty was proven wrong.
Demons are said to take the flesh of Man
And walk amongst him, undetected
But so much of Mankind is bad enough,
That even the Angels might leave them unsuspected.
And so Asmodeus slithers, in sadistic sodomy,
As Gabriel turns his head, shuddering in distress
When mortals see, in Angels and Demons, such behavior,
They find even the secular world to cause less distress.
In the forests of Albion lives Aldrameck
A handsome Satyr with a peacock's tail...
He will tell you all about the lay of the land,
And how to hear a Banshee's wail.
There was an Angel of Light that would rise, come morning,
Before his fatal fall from Heavens court
The angels that did not join him might now look down,
Onto the plane of Mankind, where he now cavorts.
His name was Lucifer, and he and Michael would in Heaven kiss,
But when the Rebellion came, Michael fled
Ever after would the Archangel remember Lucifer,
His first true love with every word he said.
The Canon of Saints is as such
That each one of them are called by name,
One by one and though they always stand apart,
Each of them will pray the same.
Nebuchadnezzar was brought to humility, perhaps
But some will say he still bore a hatred in his heart,
So that when he appeared in Heavens glimmering court,
The angels angrily tore him apart.
For what can be said of the Sorcerer-Emperor?
He, who once dressed in robes powdered with pentagrams,
And the ancient runes Necronomicon remembers
Singing the words, to the Song of the Damned.
His long beard and carv'd golden staff
Shaped into a terrible dragon's claw
All of Babylon's mysteries in his baleful pearl crown,
Upon his head lifted to the ancient skies, in awe.
When he died, we can imagine, he went to the sea,
And screamed at the Gods of the World and of Time;
Then he lifted his staff, and uttered a terrible spell,
But collapsed dead, by accident of his own design.
Perhaps he was the final heir of that line men and women,
That knew, with a smirk, all that knowledge so forbidden
And thence, with his idiot-son dying, so we are told,
All those ancient secrets were once again, hidden.
And could we not all relate to this arcane tyrant?
He tried to do what all men seek to rule all the land!
But then he fell to the one thing Man is never immune to
The omnipotent sweeping broom, that is Gods hand.
One day, Gilgamesh set off with a knapsack and a sword,
Saying he was going out, for a long walk
And this impromptu journey became, in the end,
The beginning of the immortality, of which humans talk.
Dante, his Hell held in his hands,
Knew he would live forever, even as a silhouette,
For he had created a work of wonder and horror
That, once read, is impossible to forget
And that, fellow-travelers, is what I hope
To have done here, in these pages of senseless rhyme
But one day, I believe, these images will meld together,
Into an iridescent spectacle The Colour of Time.