I lay grey rose petals around in the shape of a fractured heart. I place votive candles in the shape of a fiery eyed skull. I incant through chants the names of those who would not be named in your pestilential kingdom; the rich phantoms that absorb the sacrifice of those who devote themselves to your duties. Charnel chocolate wets my life poisoned tongue. My chattering teeth laugh at the sexual rites, yet envious they are covered in the remains, and cannot taste what charnel victory waits beyond. I blessed the owl as it passed overhead and in front of the moon, drafting the incense into cloud art. Let its wings cross upon the sky path of another lone and despairing traveler, so that they too will find the courage to call upon the one who provides respite from life, create another death ritual for their self in honor of our savior, and become a devotee of Death. Deny Ra, the Egyptian sun god, any pleasure in his light. Yes! Shrivel from his embrace, recoil from his touch. It showers us in polluted fecundity so that we may become its slave, only to snatch it from our grasp in the blink of a ghost when we might use it for own welfare. The moon, and its king Death, to them we are no slaves. Servants, perhaps, but willing servants. The bloom of our decay is well rewarded for our service to the lady moon and her consort—our hearts being annihilated so that they never are to dreadfully feel pain again! Anxiety only plagues those who lack communion with Azrael. Their faith has no faith in its process, and so they turn from the unknown. Why bathe in familiar light? What tedium! What boredom and eternal lameness! Bask in the dark, dine in the unfamiliar, and allow to penetrate, like a wolf in heat allows her mate inside, the fascinating presence of Him, our Dark Duke, our lord of the night, impregnator of those ready for his final, frosty stab. Odysseus when he clung to the tree branch to save himself from the Charybdis was a fool! An idiot of no discernment, a savant who had only one talent: to live. The Charybdis was the seduction of our lord, and he denied his allurements. Warp me, whirlpool, drag me into your tumultuous abyss, softly crack my spine, dip my head into your crazed waters and eat me. Guide me into the night chambers of the moon, if she will have me. Our offspring will be bloodless, lifeless; no frail red existence will paint our children into a wearying toil of mortality.
“My name Gregory MacDonald. I’m 24 years old. I deal in philosophic non-fiction, prose poetry (in style after Clark Ashton Smith), and the occasional fiction. A lot of my works are highly gothic and romantic in theme. My chief influences are, but not limited to, the romantic poets, especially Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, Clark Ashton Smith and George Sterling, and I’ve been writing dedicatedly for five years.”