What is poetry but subdued spellcraft?

In them we can conjure life in to air, creating if only for a moments breath, equality with God.

May these words be etched from the fabric of deep time,

Let these words bear the fruits of a necronomicon only the willing may see and touch.

Spilling stories as a cloistered fiend onto parchment, I don't want mere spoken words

I want articulated grimore.

You see poetry is not a delicate waif, it is an indomitable possessive, all consuming beast that halts the course of our journey. Consuming us like Jonah and catapulting us into lands unknown.

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I was never the same when my closet door was ruptured as a child and it lurched forward seizing me by its clawed tips, it consumed me as it had thousands before, all deaf to my cries.

Yet i was not slain. Rather, I was carried with it, to a thousand fabulous realms, sensational cosmic kivas. The darkness was bleak and unbroken, and i was catapulted into deep time with its trickling and vibrating cosmology worthy of the fevered pen of Lovecraft.

A multitude of stars gathered about me.

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"We are the storytellers and older than thought. What right have you to be here?"

There's were faces twisted in fire and mania. The demon poetry, the thousand and one screaming stars lurched upon me and I wriggled free plummeting to the earth below, a black void sleeping and unsteady.

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Burdened with worlds of words, I was set apart, yet strangely whole. I was marked by the beast of thee word. The black shuck of phantasmagoria and art. a marked man.

My sleeps were riddled with obtuse dreams. I took to the backyard tree for sanctuary, absolution-yet was moving in a new direction. I was fixed abstract spectacles. Poetry was not an idle thing for shiftless dreamers-it was the venerated ancestor-it was the golden calf to bow down to. Moving like a serpent, it struck without warning, without grace, without question. It struck at nighttime, when all else were asleep.

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The blasphemes of a thousand and one unknown dialects assailed me and demanded I conjure them into life, yet they were strange and inhuman-not meant to be uttered by the human tongue.

"Summon me" they cry.

Rouge hewn to be scribed again and again until my young mind was bleeding.

I have disavowed humans in favor of angels and ghosts. I have written in the throws of fever.

and if the young tread past my homestead they will hear my baleful cry

"I am seeking my necronomicon", I scream

"I am seeking my necronomicon"

What shall I do with these words?

I will pimp them out of poetry reads for the validation of the shadows

I will lay them bare to strangers in chapbooks and obscure manuscriptes.

I will deck these knowledge in diamonds and thrust it before an uncaring indulgent world like a mad carnival barker.

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So in this knowledge, I will take to sleep tonight, as I have before. I will light a candle and pray. I will hear them seething, slowly but surely, like rats in the recesses of a wall-whispering-chattering-skin folding, sacks opening.

For now I have journeyed to the edge of deep time and born its mark. I have tangoed with unlatched words man calls unfathomable

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This beast has marked me from afar

but how it leaves the most magnificent scar.