Alla inlägg under augusti 2010

Av Christian - 23 augusti 2010 20:23


Rain; bent trees under

grey skies. Sole comfort found in

the scent of green tea

ANNONS
Av Christian - 14 augusti 2010 13:23

We ask o' thee: Whit art thou?


We are Iscariot, the Zealot Judas!
 


In that case, Iscariot, we ask o' thee: Whit dost thou hold in thy right hand?


Daggers and poisons!
 


In that case, Iscariot, we ask o' thee: Whit dost thou hold in thy left hand?


Thirty silver pieces and a rope!
 


In that case, Iscariot, whit art thou?


As apostles, yet not as apostles.
As adherents, yet not as adherents.
As believers, yet not as believers.
As traitors, yet not as traitors.


We are disciples of death, the Death Disciple Group,
Only bowing and praying forgiveness of the Lord;
Only bowing and defeating the enemies of the Lord.
Wielding our dagger in the night and poisoning the evening meal,
We are assassins; the Assassin Judas.


When the time comes, we shall cast our thirty silver pieces at the altar
And hang our head from our rope.
Thereby we shall fall to Hell in cabal.
Lined up in square formation,

we seek to do battle with the demons of Hell.
APOCALYPSE NOW!

ANNONS
Av Christian - 11 augusti 2010 15:10

Skrev den här - på svenska - för drygt ett år sedan, men blev aldrig rikrigt nöjd. Ska man nu försöka skriva Lovecraft-inspirerat, så ska det nog vara på engelska, trots allt.  Må så vara att jag sviker mitt modersmål, men engelskan har vissa ord som passar så mycket bättre i den här sortens text.


__________________________________________________


It´s been twenty years now.

Twenty long years,  but when the door slams behind me and the sound fades away, a chiaroscuro of memories arise unbidden, and from the darkest corners of my mind I hear once more my uncles voice. I hear him as clear as if he sat beside me now, like he used to, even though the secretive old crook has been gone for more than twenty years.

I hear him, the hoarse voice shaped by expensive whiskey and cheap cigars,
by the humid heat of the jungle and the all-consuming arid dryness of egyptian tombs...
... a voice that would be at home in a decrepit old victorian mansion, not here;
not in the mundane dining-room of a swedish working class home.

I hear his voice.
He still talks to me, fills my head with knowledge I never even dreamed of,
images I could not imagine even in the nightmares of my childhood;

Forgotten names in mouldering manuscripts, cities reclaimed by the darkest rain-forests, civilizations lost in the deepest voids of the oceans, forbidden worship of nameless deities...
...God in heaven, merciful saints, make him stop!


***


Twenty years.

Twenty long years since I saw who he truly was,
what was hidden behind gray hair, blood-shot eyes and tobacco colored teeth.
Twenty years since I thrust that obsidian dagger into the darkness where his heart should have been.

Twenty years... and still he talks to me!

Av Christian - 5 augusti 2010 14:38

(Fåniga nödrim och bristande rytm...
men jag orkar inte vara seriös hela tiden)

---------------------------------------------------------

For us who wear the deepest black
each day is Halloween
and though we  look like vamps and ghouls
´tis nothing like it seems

Cause we´re the Children of the Night
each funerals´ favourite guests
You may think we are scary & you call us wierd
but of your own looks we´re not that impressed.

Exquisitely clothed in darkness, like a second skin
of velvet and of PVC, of leather and of lace;
escaping the terrible daylight hours
half-asleep in a drunken haze

The evil sun it hurts our kohl-rimmed eyes
for the daylight we´re to pretty and pure;
so we hide in the shadows with music and wine
drinking and singing along to The Cure...

Av Christian - 3 augusti 2010 14:38


Would you dance with me
in this, the Theatre of Illusions End
on naked feet, slowly moving
over the crystalline shards
of vanitys broken mirrors
shattered by hope long since abandoned?

Would you walk with me

through this, the Museum of Forgotten Promises
with open eyes, forced to watch
bereft the armour of deceit
born of holy books
and the words of false prophets?

Would you dream with me

here, in the chiaroscural world beyond the Wall of Sleep
our spirits joining, dissolving to become One
lulled into complancency
by penumbral angels
playing in a shadowlike orchestra?

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