The blank field is a whitewashed wall
between
eyes and incipient thought.
A neatly printed line
emerges out of nothing,
fingers sleep
as they plant words in inky rows.
Meaning searches for meaning,
each symbol is a cracked seed
shed from a blacked-out window -
brain particles blindly seeking.
There is meaning here,
but it is as yet formless,
what is seen is slough and spillage,
mind-molt
struggling into an appearance
of notion and idea.
Now the word is flesh, a glossolalia,
a mute speaking in tongues, yet
breathless of any spirit.
At once the painted parody of self
is free to wriggle forth,
to sew and bind together
discernable images,
it must surface above the silent page,
lift up the emblematic
as the hammer-arm
of the insubstantial, until deciphered
by other necromancers
who then speak
for the dead-voiced word.
This then is the tipping point:
the space between sight and seen,
a place to speak into existence
the once immaterial
or surrender all coherence
to the un-lettered reticence of God.
The Riders of the Grey Smoke
In a dark dream
Lost in the Midnight Garden
I looked for you
Within its semi-darkness
I walked through the softly blowing winds
Of The Lands of the Ether and Blue
And called out loudly to you
Praying you'd answer
To help me get through
But in that dark dream
Lost in the Midnight Garden
It stayed so silent
That only the swirling grey smoke whispered
In a gentle voice
Go back, traveller
For there is no rescue
For no familiar voices
You know
Are here to answer
Or waiting for you
Only us
The Riders of the Grey Smoke
Known as Asphodel Meadows
Necromancers
Who gives you this choice
Or you could stay
And be transmuted into this grey smoke like us
To serve a new queen
To eternally rejoice
What says you
The walker
From beyond
The Lands
Of The Ether and Blue
Do you want to join us
And never need to be rescused
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Image shared under fair usage policy.
Cockroaches backstroke lazily
in pools of condensed milk.
Stacked newspapers pile up,
yellowing ingrained tabloids.
Her bed has a curved spine,
her couch is a witchery shaped coven,
a semaphore center for twitching tails.
At her whirling core, she is mad,
the way angels go mad,
with bright-eyed ecstasy.
The cat food cans are collectible,
labels brown in a mold-tinted twilight
all else decays
with the half-life of stale urine.
She calls her pink-tongued children
by secret names,
names handed down by necromancers
to generations of neurotic felines,
cackles, while she sleeps, spinning fur balls
the size of small planets.
Happy Halloween
Ghosts
Ghouls
Goblins
Spirits
Wines
Pumpkins and their spices
Jackolaterns and their flickering candles lights
Scarecrows
Spiders and their webs
Skulls
Bats
Rats
Black Cats
Crows
Skeletons
Undead
Witches their spells and witchcraft
Warlocks their spells and witchcraft
Necromancers dead-talking
Divinations
Ancestors
Rituals
Rites
Vampires
Werewolves
Mummies
Shapeshifters
Gargoyles
Bogeymen
Monsters
Creatures
Creepy Crawlers
Grim Reapers
Devils
Cemeteries
Tombstones
Crosses
pentagrams
pentacles
tricks or treats
truths or dares
haunted houses
haunted hayrides
Netherworlds
Paranormal
Macabre
Weird
Ghastly
Gorey
Creepy
Cute
Nerdy
Sexy
costumes
Food
Harvest
Candy
Festivities
Beautiful Decay of Nature
Full Moons
Thinnest line between our world and the spiritual realm, which allows beings to crossover
Myths
Legends
Superstitions
Songs
Poems
Books
Death Symbolism
Evil symbolism
Cool Weather
Foggy Bogs
Horrors
Terrors
Scares
Screams
Gothic Elements
Samhain and Day of the Dead Origins
Worshippers
Corporatism and
Consumerism both make money off it and ruin it!
Throwing fireballs from broken fists,
Destroying all who feed the mist.
The necromancers raise the dead,
as guilds of pyros burn them red.
breathe in deep, the dragons breath,
it tastes so sweet, hold in the scent.
Let the high control your head,
then feast upon the naked flesh.
Indulge in all the sweaty sex,
with kings and queens and princesses.
Then later on we all will toast,
before feeding on endless roasts.
And goat cheeses and pumpkin pies,
then blow it up into to the skies.
We’ll celebrate for those who died.
and drink until we feel alive.
at night, I think, it's really worse
coldly still and quiet dark
stubborn muses, rusted curse
careless drops on vellum stark
a captured fleeting moment
life gets balanced on a pen
turgid rhymes and syntax foment
only stoke an unslaked yen
in some inkwelled vision quest
asking stars for hints and answers
delving deep in prosaic zest
like poetic necromancers
but simple words for simple years
will weave back a thread of verse
wisely, as an ending nears
keep these notions sweetly terse.
The witches flying overhead,
With shrieks and cackles, loop the loop;
And people scream to watch them swoop.
Respect the evening of the dead,
As zombies groan and werewolves howl,
And vampires wander on the prowl.
The night fills human hearts with dread,
As necromancers cast a spell,
And things are creeping out from Hell.
The witches flying overhead
Respect the evening of the dead;
The night fills human hearts with dread.
For Andrea and Connie’s Constanza contest
Ignorance watching from the tallest tower
Observing all the lands as they grow in power
The people staring up grow weaker every hour
As short sighted selfishness prays it’s not devoured
Reverence and promises will make them follow
They’ll worship all their toys in the pain they swallow
City gates forever guarded by the drowning hollow
Nobody’s getting in so we can sit and wallow
A protest under the moon in a dying streetlight
Declaring that our power is giving up the good fight
A man that never stood up to reflect our own might
Declaring that our law is taking away our own sight
For everything we’ve done and the things we’ve made you
You dare to stand and speak as if we never loved you
For everything that came from our sacrifice
You dare to judge us now as if you were right
For everything that came from our every backing
You dare to rise against and say that we are lacking
Statistics say we’re right and yet you still disturb us
The dying words you breathe we’ll twist in to our purpose
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