Forgotten Passions in the Dread of Desolation

Forgotten Passions in the Dread of Desolation

Beelzebanian charm:
the Lord of Flies
gathers with mead
and gluts
on supplicating succubi.

The cloying palaver
of gilded tyrants
caballing their gilded thrones
crowns the obeisant mawks.

Unctuous divestment
of the gilded –
deposed by thorny,
deadheaded roses
who bathe in retching remorse.

Poached psychopomps
limn the barren pudenda
of capricious nymphets
who kick against
the penetrating pricks
of rapacious power.

Acrid tear glands
dried from hellish heat
belong to fleeing augurs;
a resin of rue
for the reprobate.

Promethean anguish:
his bitter gift–
sealed with stigmatic wounds–
reverses its fortune,
and burns instead of lights:
a prize absent of victory
against the Gods.

Gurgled cries
and sibilant wheezes
are the only voices
of the caged,
whilst impish pliers
pluck their teeth,
and bleeding gums
anoint fellatio.

Ravenous purloiners
muse their fortune;
lowered gibbets
offer suborn manna
of androphagy.

Cursed are they who feed:
they soon find themselves
caged in the offering plate
that gave them their meal;
the rat laments his cheese
as he is mounted.

Oh they that predicted the end
share their fate
with the damned.

There is no end.
There is no respite.
Though flesh is stripped,
and consumed...
There.
Is.
No.
End!

Roasted
on the bonfire of sin-
Burn!
Burn!
Burn!

Longevity endowed,
else suffering
cannot truly be known.

At least the wolf of Gubbio
knew mercy.
None of the abandoned here
will speak mercy’s name.
None of the forsaken,
though they behold
the mutual hideousness of each other,
will die; they only shriek.

There is no chance to rule here;
all who arrive
are victims
and perpetrators alike.

Shrieks that beg
to be blind
to be deaf
to be dumb...

To be dead.