Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Sunrise in the house of madness

Sunrise in the House of Madness

Make no mark upon my skin,
It is my mind that is quailed in chains,
In this dank room, enclosed with in,
Sent to eat bugs and laugh among the insane.

My bed is bare and made upon a mattress
Of white and blue stripes, splotched with
Orgies of effluvia that reach beyond a level that is a stench.
Cutting from the small square window
A graying light that is weighted down by dust
Dust that dances upon that light,
Buoyed by waves of colder drafts
That reach their clawed fingers through the cracks in the wall.

I can reach my hand and feel the cold earth
It rests upon the other side
Of inches of wood and mortar.
It leaches from my skin all the luster of life
And color from my sunlight days.

It is dusk, dusk, dusk.
I went to sleep at noon,
But now it is dusk in the house of madness.

I will wait until the gentle hour,
When all asleep, asleep as may lie,
When the young gasp in oppressive fern felt air,
And old ones rasp and in aloneness die.
When that hour should wake and come,
The course of night halfway run,
I will slip the lock upon that door,
Slip out like shadow through the door,
Softly creeping crouching through that all,
Passing doorways, doorways locked, one and all.

There to a place of hiding that I have found.
It is my cell and I return to it.

There I stand and my eyes search,
I see the board that was my bed,
The rags that were my sheets,
The scraps that were my pillow,
The filth that was my sky,
The rot that was my encompassing horizon.

Repelled at how I have become part of them
I leave for what is, I hope, the final time.

Through that passage way that echoes with every footfall,
Which came to and fro the guards that served the slop
That ravenously I fed upon,
Even as the fleas feasted on my flesh.

I lean against the final doorway,
And there, in a hiding hole I saw once,
I ensconce my self to wait.

I feel the vibrations of lumbering feet,
The moans that punishments of whip and chain
From eager lips greet
The lashing of the leather braids,
That slice the skin
And rip the hair.
And engorge the organs of sex.
Until until until tey are ready to be slammed
With the rape of the guarded by the guards.
The wailing echoes of fevered passion,
That comes from being used possession.

This is the House of Madness
It is evening in the House of Madness,
And finally, in throes of orgiastic ecstasy,
The timbers themselves to shake with shrieks.
The shrieks that rolled up like a wave from nerves
Slashed and pounded.
Orifices to the twisted souls ripe and slathered,
With the confusion of the moment.

I hear the midnight chime.
It is Midnight in the house of madness.
All about there are snores and sounds of deep breathed slumbering,
From insane imprisoned, and insane imprisoning alike.
The blood that was spattered by the tormented couplings
The fornication that is possible only in damantion's fortification,
Has dried to hues of rusted brown.
It camouflages the decay of days and days and days,
That have passed in eternal war.

It is midnight, it was midnight, it ever shall be midnight
Midnight in the House of Madness.

I feel the sleep turn to grottos depth of dreams,
That echo in twisted nightmares the torments of before.
It is deep morning, morning before morning.
It is deep morning in the House of Madness,
Out come the mice to nibble at the crumbs.

A scream splits the night, when, I think,
A rat has bitten to deep into a finger that strayed from bed,
Hanging by thin arm towards the ground.
The clanging sound of thumping to death the errant rodent,
Gives way to deadly calm.

My muscles shriek as well, and scream,
I am cramped into this small space,
And see only ghastly shapes of waking dreams,
That ooze and shiver before my sightless sight.

But then when all hope is there forelorn,
There is a aura that is like light.

It has come, the graying. The gloaming,
It is graying in the House of Madness.

All is like the gargoyles who see over the horizon
To the coming dawn, that sit on the shoulder
Of a forgotten hero, and whisper to him.
There, through a slender gap in the boards,
I see a star winking out.

I know there there is coming hope.

What sounds I hear? There is a touch of something,
But what I know not what.

I unfurl my limbs and press the hatch,
The hinges squeak like those now sleeping mice,
And I am stone touched petrified in fear.
But there is no one there, and there is nothing near.
From this sarcophagus of eternal night,
I uncoil to see the freedom of another life.

But the sound it grows louder,
And more depraved,
It is the bats returning in coming waves,
Even as I fight the current that there bodies make,
The come like tide without a break,
And press me this way and then that,
In my face and hair the stench of bat.

The children of the night pour over me,
Like blood in witch's reverie.
It is the Sabbath of the House of Madness,
The Sabbath hour, in this the coven house.

Then cleaving a space I think I see,
A goat horned figure, wings spread
Like hellish tree.
Is it what I dreamt, or what I fear?
His putrid flesh makes stench so near.
His red eyes a fire, his claws reach higher.
I shriek and run, and push and turn and toil and toss.
I slap and flail, at any cost.

Squealing with bloodlustdelight,
I rip apart the winged rodents in flight,
And then sink my teeth into their hides,
Sucking down their soft insides,
It drips from my lips, that are redden embossed,
All other goals to this carnival are lost.

Running like the ship before hurricane tempest,
With some demonic strengthI feel somehow blessed,
My feet like springs propel me on each floating stride,
Until I slam the door on the living tide.
And back to the shelter of these heavy boards,
I survey where I am… it was where I was before.
The peaking orange of rising sun,
Signals that all hope is lost,
As day has begun.

I see the little square of the table where I last supped,
And once again down is down,
And up is up.
I feel the fetid walls close in on me again,
The rats chatter, and the fleas are friends,
I pick the guano from my hair,
And bite at flies that are not there.

It is dawning dawn.
It is dawn in the House of Madness,
And I have escaped imprisonment,
By accepting insanity as permanent,
And now like all the other maddened slaves to sex,
I am collared by raw craving's hex.
And give my self each and every night,
To soddomy, lash, and beating blight.
It is what I have become, and it is right.

This is noon ever more. Noon and now,
My furrow open to the guardsman's plow.
I am finished as others once began,
A bridge to their bliss, the worlds I span.
And each midnight as the clock's chime twelve,
Two and three into my crevices delve.

It is what I made that fatal night,
When I turned to hatred, away from right.

Sabbath comes then every day,
And for this forever that one mistake I pay.

I am here and here and here but not,
Amidst the fumes and sacred rot,
But listen as I scream and shake,
Listen and perhaps another path you might take.

It is your only hope to survive,
The coiled torments that within you writhe.
Perhaps if fortune smiles upon you then,
You can come back with others, and my miseries end.

Do this, if you think yourself a friend.

I am buried here, buried here,
Buried, in the House of Madness.

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