The Obscure

Welcome, one and all, to the incongruent ravings of an inferior mind!

Friday, June 08, 2007

 
Strange days, strange days.

"Wise men at their end know dark is right
Because their words have forked no lightning, they
Do not go gentle into that good night."

An end to a life of pain and despair, then. A toast to misery, it waged quite a war. My hands have been bound with the words of a cruel god, they have been freed by the dark and masochistic laughter of the nemesis.
Spinning yellow and watery damnation, words I've written more times than could be counted. Madness burns in the eye of the beholder, my eyes shine like beacons in the dark.
So what price is paid for the ability to sacrifice? What coin could purchase quiet rest? How do you measure the worth of slumber, our daily reprieve from the onslaught of consciousness. My conscience has been hewn, a blade bound with barbed wire pierces my heart, I waste my gin on the wound to keep it clean, much as I pour it out on my mind to keep it numb.
And my talent! Oh what talent, to be so bold without such substance. Seen from close my words are dust, illusion sewn to keep the faceless mob from devouring my soul. Long steel sabers pierce my jaws, stuck in my skull as bloody tooth and blackened thorn. In street and alley what strange toungues are these? Roars of bachannalial jubilation in my ear: Voices that once ill-fated Gomorrah knew.
Sin and sinner, sin and saint. Two letters separate the lauded from the infamous. What man is so pious he has not the black pit we all bear? The cavern hewn so deep in sandy soul, rife with brown recluse lovers, bloodsucking lust, and great winged temptation, with fire for eyes and lonely defeat for jaws.
And you! Clever Garroted Man, with blind white eyes and bloody leer. How often have you been accused for speaking the truth seen in the depths of the individual christ? How often has it been the truth itself, that pulls so deeply into your flesh, that gives away your bone to rot, and your mind to happy madness?
I hang here from this gnarled dead tree, my throat ripped out and clean bones breaking. History is an ocean of rotting jism, crusting spittle, and blood from a virgin's womb.

The immortal, gaining confidence at last--to break my mind and stroke my skin--peers down into my reserved grave of fire, and pours more drink in me, to slake my thirst.
The wound has been open, now less it festers. I splatter the pus on paper, the buckshot sprays my brains out onto the epitaph for my unborn children.


Sorry for my uncensored words, and for the theft of those of Thomas and Aldritch.

Comments:
JOHNNY, I MISS YOU

love,
becca
 
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