it seeks the portal of the soul

The stalker rides

the Locum Coach –

caught in the undertow

it seeks the portal of the soul

 

The Light of the Dragon Palace descends to the Secret River – the other is in Florence. A nightly story – Even within the Malcolm Walker Mansion, Abraham suffered disastrous consequences. The mystery of The River -lung of whispers, wailing above the broken abandoned docks of the heart – an eviscerated vision of tallow flesh. This skin, which is my name in the cemetery of Florence, recalls the nightly tale of Murmur Sheivah. He is with us in the obsidian dragon under a snake. There were a cluster of unsound souls peopling the creviced catacombs – crawling hummus over cracked tiles and splintered bones. White servants who do not belong to the grave or the air. Witless men in pursuit of remembering the story of Abraham’s Night in The Forests of Worcester.

I remember that day, Mr. Jeong died –

 

bony carnations

weeping petals

a purloined heart’s cry

splintered lips

 

Eye of Gy’jelko’0~KA

There have been many changes around The Miskatonic campus, since the Folklore and Metaphysics Department discovered the Hex Sign on the barn at Keziah Mason’s abandoned farm. It was later discovered to be The Eye of Gy’jelko’0~KA. If you should encounter the Eye, please take care. The Miskatonic University bears no liability for the after effects as may occur because of such an event.

 

 

I found the right answer to the wrong question

and it became stone.

I found the right answer to an unasked question

and it turned to bone.

I found the truth braided in regretful meat,

and the knife was honed.

 

And The City rose through the orange red dust that enveloped it like a living shroud – the ghosts of lost kisses and whispered lies walked, swaying vapours of regret and alarm, grasping for memory and meaning. Frayed hair, a twine of sobbing, shifted with the dust, blending with the dulled air, on which razor sharp grains of sand malingered and menaced – tiny forlorn roses of dismembered love. Down alleyways groaned the ghosts, as wall crevices slithered with a sublime macabre – no merchant stalls here sold more than troubled sleep and breathless dreams. As the sun bled into the evening horizon, the orange red dust consumed the city in the opening maw of the approaching night. When the sun slowly crept up in the timid dawn, nothing of The City remained, but faint gasps of a forgotten name, and the thin sharp thread of dread and despair.

The Skin Man Cometh

Some say The Skin Man ~

is the last living citizen/thing from Carcosa,

but that is neither here, nor there – 

He has no bones,

so he eats the bones of the living

He has not skin,

so he collects the skin of the living

Perhaps, he does both

or

neither,

you’ll never know till you meet him.

 

– From The Book of Future Folklore

 

Asemic Tarot Blog : READ –

The Skin Man sends Greetings from Yesterday’s Otherwhen