Vnius compendium, alterius difpendium

Two snakes entwined,

gnashing feeble fangs;

fragile scales opposed,

both harken to reign.

Tangled in feud,

on bellies crawl;

nix liberty, save,

a serpent’s fall.

Thus must one,

the other eat,

that a dragon may rise,

from strife’s red heat.


The Maker

He was a creator of talent rare, whose works earned great reknown,

and jealousy in equal measure, from those much lower down.

He labored beneath a city vast, ruled by lust and grift and gun,

where much work was accomplished, to ensure little else was done.

Shortly, a savage band assembled, around the maker’s domain,

with precious little consistency, official concern was feigned.

“His wonders he shares not yet enough, and so unto the flame,

his worldly arts and life, to avenge the affliction of our shame.”

Loosed from the throng were feral cries, as the fire ate all away,

“The villain was at long last dead, the people have won the day!”

Yet months after that fateful encounter, without the maker’s sway,

confidence in the system’s operation began a sure decay.

Despondent, a former acolyte of the creator, sat a lonesome bar,

and drank in mournful silence, and dreamed of faring far.

There in the corner he spied, suddenly, a odd man, robed and pale,

who seemed somewise familiar, and so he gave him hail.

The stranger raised his head, and to the drinker’s great surprise,

found none other than the maker—xanthous luster in his eyes.

“Tell me, man, what are you, that could escape that fiery suit?”

The maker turned to the souse and answered: “I am absolute.”

Ἄποφις II

The wreckage of the god-ship lies

On Bakhu’s shores for clever eyes

With reforged fragments of the arc

The architects, athwart the dark

The Great Cat dead—Set is slain

The Serpent twines about The Skein

Holo crumbles—the pillars crack

Warship moves—His demense to sack

The Eater of Souls can never die

But shackled shall eternal lie

Beneath the timbers of their barge

His writhing coils, stair and targe.


Watch the clash, the battle won

If lost, will never rise the sun

Moves the barge, across the land

Mighty Set with spear in hand

Guardian of the gilded lord

Horizon coils with scales to ford

Comes the Serpent, from The Nile

Sixteen yards—sardonic wile

Cut and torn and gealdor bound

He writhes and heaves yet overground

Breaks the spear and barge he smites

Victor from Tenth Realm of Night

World Encircler, below the dawn

Beyond Bakhu—all light has gone.


The Lord of Want


When the heart is charged with want,

And the soul is bright and taunt,

When grounding-chains are fever-rent,

And budding will—to be yet spent,

When shadows lengthen in the eye,

And the dead from living cry,

Exhortations echo—

From the Throne of I’hy.


When understood—the gyre strains,

And chitin girds against the rain,

When ravenous hunger, cavern-fills,

And muses sing as whippoorwills,

When you—his aphid—string a bow,

And dance in carrion beneath the crow,

Salutations echo—

From the Throne of I’hy.


When the diadem rests upon the head,

And golden thoughts are outward spread,

When moon and star are cupped in hand,

And suborned is all the quenchless land,

When outer dark is brought to light,

And time and entropy die alike,

Adulations echo—

From the Throne of I’hy.

The Farm and the Forest (Part I)


How It All Began To End

It all started when a crotchety goose and his gaggle of ruffians, hailing from parts unknown, landed in the Pond on the edge of the Farm. The Pond was divided by the fence, leaving a small portion just outside the bounds of the Farm, its bank up against the edge of the Forest. The small flock did not stay long, as a young German Shepherd saw them land. He hollered out to his sister and they both ran pell-mell to the pond, barking loudly and scaring off the foreigners, who flapped wildly up over the fence and into the edge of the Forest. As his gaggle spread out warily looking for seeds and bugs, the crotchety goose surveyed the Farm with malice and jealousy in his heart. He wanted to swim in the pond, gorge on the grain, and find some nice lady farm geese with which to cavort.

A young goose, all white and rather small for his age, watched this kerfuffle unfold with awe and curiosity. He always had to wait in line behind his bigger brothers and sisters for his share of grain. He stayed up late and listened to the whispering of the rats. He hated the dogs and their scary teeth. But most of all, he hated the rules of the Farm. Why should he have to wait his turn for grain? Who were the pigs to tell him where to sleep and when to eat? Why should the horses and sheep tell him where he could waddle? So this young goose was angry, sullen, and lonely, and when the big goose and his wild gaggle landed in the pond, his heart soared. He was too slow to get there before those meddling dogs ruined the fun, so he moved along the fence, hoping to catch another glimpse of the big, tough foreigners.

Just as the crotchety goose was about to turn away, he heard a rather squeaky honk. There was a young farm goose waddling along the fence, bobbing his head up and down excitedly. He made his way slowly over to the fence, wary of any dogs seeing him. The young farm goose hopped from one foot to the other. Unable to contain his excitement, he honked once, then cowered in fear when the big foreigner hissed and flapped his wings in anger.

Quiet, you silly fool! Do you want the wolf dogs to return and chase me away again?”

The farm goose was embarrassed.

I-I-I am sorry, foreigner. Why have you come to the Farm? From where did you come? Oh, I have so many questions!”

The crotchety goose looked down on the Farm animal and sensed an opportunity.

And I may have many answers for you, young one. But to get, you must give and…”

The farm goose was taken aback.

You know of the Rules of the Farm, foreigner?”

Without missing a beat, the crotchety goose continued on haughtily:

I know many things, youngster. I am a wild goose, and we are the smartest of all creatures. If you would like answers, you must bring me gifts of grain and seed. Go now. I will be waiting here after the sun goes to sleep.”

The farm goose shifted nervously from foot to foot.

Um, ah, see… the Rules say no wandering at night…”, the foreign goose looked disappointedly away, wuffling from his nostrils in derision, “But! But, I am the freest of the Farm geese, and I do not follow the Rules, if I do not want. I will bring the grain!”

And with that, the young goose waddle-flopped merrily on his way. Later that night, he snuck out of the goose pen, gathered up some fresh grain and barleycorns, and quietly made his way back to the pond. It took him some time to see the big fellow staring intently at him through the slats of the fence.

Did you bring me what I deserve?”

Yes!”, the farm goose’s loud, squeaky honk caused the foreigner to hiss angrily. Quieter:

Yes. I brought you fresh grains and barleycorns. The best the Farm has to offer.”

As soon as the young farm goose laid down his gift, the foreign goose snapped them up greedily, leaving none for him.

Mmm, delicious. Exactly what I deserve. Now, tell me youngster, are there things you would like to know?”

So many things! So very many things! What is it that-”

The foreigner cut him short.

Then you must find a way to get me a spot in that dreary little hutch you call home.”

The farm goose was nonplussed. Not only was he crestfallen at this unexpected turn of events, he had no idea how he could get a foreign goose a place on the Farm. The crotchety goose stared at the farm goose hard, swinging each eye to look at him in turn, then turned and waddled over to the unfenced part of the pond where his gaggle slept comfortably with their beaks tucked under their wings at the edge of the dark and wild Forest. The farm goose watched him go, then made his way back to the hutch. Narrowly avoiding a young pup on patrol, he snaffled a few more barleycorns and settled down to contemplate as he fell asleep.

Interesting… very interesting…”, a dark, fat rat said quietly to himself before scurrying off quickly to the haunt of his kind.

Sometimes, to get what we want we have to give more than we have.

[Part two coming soon…]

Cobwebs of the Morrow

What is all this sticky, dreadful stuff, that so hideously twines about the wrists and ankles of the mind, tripping us up at every turn? A twisted skein in which we find our vectors crystallized! Even when we free ourselves, ever so briefly from that waxy, sucking matrix, we see the terrible fang marks, dotting over the whole of our forms like so many tracmarks; in time my kindred, goodly souls all, come to believe that it is their own work or the work of their fellows such that even when freed they turn upon themselves with savage ferocity. Look, I stand amongst the bloody limbs and shattered teeth, brain spatter and rheum surrounding. The sickly drip-drip of it driving my hairs to a soldier’s stance.

A most intolerable state. Look there, fools, see the wormholes? We see them. From whence the cobwebs flow! We see them and we raise up our voices: “Close them down, close them down! You reckless fools, the cobwebs of the morrow are upon us!”

We raise up our flamethrowers, sleek and light in our bandaged and bloodstained hands, brandishing their red-flaring tongues like banners heralding the entry of some primal lord.

Turning to my comrades, my exalted brothers in arms, my iron-hearted kinsmen, I smile and proclaim, “The webs are but ash before us! Turn now, you errant-armed Praetorians, turn to the wormholes from whence they slither! First the web, now the spider! No more will we struggle in its web, no more will we suffer its invidious envenomnations! Let us tear its legs and pluck its eyes and make a feast of its grisly flesh!”

All was tricks, now all is physicality and fire and the screaming of spiders shriveling in the furnace-hail of the awakened.