The evening shadows lengthen
And crawl across the melting snow.
Departing from our winter home
We pass five dead deer in a row.
GRAFFITI IN A MASSACHUSETS ASYLUM CELL
Each night, my dreams are filled with creeping dread
And I can scarcely move or breathe or think:
I sense dimly as, in the ocean’s ink,
Deathless horrors writhe in a watery bed.
I alone know these things. All others fled.
And so I know why the cruel stars wink,
And why at night you can hear darkness blink,
And for what purpose our scrabbling race was bred.
They call me mad and lock me in this cell;
The lunatics point in at me and jeer.
But each night I hear tolling R’Lyeh’s sunken bell,
Cause of mankind’s primal hidden fears.
They will rise again, and bring with them Hell,
Who have lain dead ten thousand years.
THE SECOND COMING OF DAGON
Bubbling and foaming in the pelagial deep,
Ichthian dreams welter forth unhealthy,
Drawing home the Innsmouth Taint.
Cold stars align unblinking in a grim pavotte;
Ten thousand years bear fruit at last.
The slumberer shifts whale-like and fitful;
Signs break forth pox-like upon the earth.
Fishers haul in creaking nets, rejoicing—
No messiah blesses this day’s catch,
Only He-Who-Comes-Before,
High priest of an ancient sacrament.
As in a great salt-stained unbirthing
The piscine faithful stride unto the sea:
Evolution’s course reversed.
And one foul book gives tidings
Of Father Dagon and of drowned R’Lyeh.
Now we shall see what dogs howl at in the dark.
ASTROLOGY
Birth and death and love
Are tied to the stars above.
Not, as you might think,
With horoscopes written in ink.
Rather, there’s a time
Ordained for us, with no rhyme
Or attempt at reason:
Each life gets a season
To flourish and to grow
Before death lays it low.
And that glorious sensation
Of love is just a biological compulsion
Deluding you before it’s too late
To find a suitable mate
With whom to pass on the torch to a new group
Of idiots, who’ll restart the whole loop.
THE ROOM IS BLUE BECAUSE IT IS
The following section explains some of my thinking behind the various pieces in this collection. If you want to maintain an image of me as an intelligent, erudite sort of writer whom you can bring home to your mother, don’t read the following section. If you’re already aware that I’m a shallow hack with no artistic integrity, face front, true believer!