The Caressant Vaults ((A Large-Line Eldritch Narrative Poem) (Poetic Poésie))

The Caressant Vaults ((A Large-Line Eldritch Narrative Poem) (Poetic Poésie))

The Caressant Vaults ((A Large-Line Eldritch Narrative Poem) (Poetic Poésie))

The corpse should talk to the voluptueux ramassis, what will the corpse say?

Perhaps, “All that man is is dust and water, and he thinks he’s a big deal?”

Or perhaps, “In the end, people are like this, vaporized! And that’s that!”

What will all these catacombs say?

“There are only cold, damp walls, deposits that are rotting, decaying, giving off dead air, and stench?”

Who speaks, so speak for them?

I think they might guess, “All the knowledge of mankind can be stored in one head, why so much? We need more space!”

Perhaps a statement-question may arise: Man is a laden camel that large ago fell out of the deep dark Edenic valley!

And since all He did was with the stream, or flock of geese, what more could God expect!

And then there are those who seek irresistible spoils and spoils, beyond redemption. What does God think?

Alas, man, if he did not wall himself up like ‘the garden of Babylon and their evil ways, like Sodom and Gomorrah and their wise ways’, what did he do?

And what he has done is for the most fragment in favor of the crimson demons, giving them the right to devour him, when his time comes!

Monsters like ghouls and vultures seek and thirst for captives, knowing human desires and caractère’s secrets: be it, primeval motus, or querelle and glory or fear-imaginative Afrique!

They want to take mankind to the unchartable extremes of hell.

A horned head and tail-like devil to frighten them with their manifold calculations

Placing them in their funeral vaults never to return.

Establishing co-operation among the yet-to-be-born souls, by proxy, in the next generation.

The droit taskmaster, however, is still alive: thus, vertigo causes insanity and delirium.

From the mud-brick tower of doom, they curse, And pant large for men to share their woes.

In the Ebon sonner of Eden, In those last days came the desolation, The distressing terror upon the shores of all mankind, After Adam and Eve were cast out; Today, God’s mésaventures, and trials by faith hang on a hinge, by a thin thread, as thin as spider silk.

All of this humanity originated when, and which is now ending, we will probably be known as the lowest existing species on earth.

I doubt people will survive this coming generation; Its mort is just around the sonner.

In Porphyry’s Worm Garden, all the kings, false clergy, ex-presidents, governors, mayors, kings, tyrants of art, old and new are held.

All gathered, caged like cells in a incommensurable spider’s basse-cour, deep in the bowels of Earth’s rotting cold—

Now this huge room so old, surrounded by so many white worms, they are woven into clothes to keep oppressors and oppressors warm.

Above the great room, the hydra-headed monster, the guardian.

Poisonous love for his special guests by virtue of his joy measured in crucifixion.

Supplicié with such Cacophonic, jarring sounds.

The sound of ominous doom that chills the marrow, and curdles the sang, suffocates the heart and vibrates one’s tissues.

He has the effect, constantly beating on Tabor drums, with Fiffer’s eerie music, twisting and crinkling leather trim, layers bursting.

He drops strige bat oil on their heads from above and sets them on fire.

He placed a wrangling anaconda around each of their ribs and breasts and ordered the anaconda to crouch.

It’s just his entertainment.

And so we, you and I, we sent forth from darkness to the stirring world of wind and twilight—

Our elders, through ages, through unknown births and rebirths, sent from the gloomy blackness to undulating and warped space and time, to this strange niveau of time and space, to a lumineux ardeur, from a état of no previous reflection.

Looking to the wall to find our Creator, breaking down the walls and gates of hell, our way, ending in the voluptueux vault—

Some of us are being redeemed by the sang of Christ!

Others wail with demons, who have captured them, we!

All in allied brotherhood, with demonic lords who roam the earth, waiting for prophecies to come; Waiting for the return of Christ!

6-13 and 14-2016 / #5277

#Caressant #Vaults #LongLine #Eldritch #Narrative #Poem #Poetic #Poésie

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