Leather-bound tatters
Blood-ink maters to parchment
Read atop an escarpment
Fire-blue tines rape the sky
On-high violations as
Motivation for Necronomic
Incantations, audible permutations
Of flesh, veins, and hatred
Eyes red with sound and fury
Signifying there is no worry
Of nine clouds of judgement
As Mephistical mystics
Regurgitate cannibalistic
Fetid decay disguised as lyrics
To a rotting rhythm, a schism
Of semantics and leave of the senses
Its word wrenches
Mind from matter, mad from hatter,
And a virtual eviction, an evisceration
Of the spirit from the skin,
Nothing left within but the
Ethereal cards from which it was ripped.
So slipped into an ephemeral existence
Did this anchor, the remaining shell:
A canker
A sore that shell infect never more.
About the Author
Jonathan O. Nilsen has been writing poetry for over thirty years. The Muse tends to speak to him through freeform, stream-of-consciousness composition — and who knows what’s going to come out. This time, he was able to focus, traipsing down the path of a Lovecraftian exploration of evil encompassed in written pages.