Monday, 11 of December of 2017

Tag » Fiction

Marcy Marchello – Natural Sacrifice Area

The land gives gently
spinning the wind with dustdevil talk.
A lone cow
trots into the road
after we pass
and dark green juniper bushes
speckle the reds, the grays
of moving fleshrock.
Rivers like lightning
streak the ground.
Look again!
The earth has opened wide and deep
spread raven’s wings
canyon walls
a part
so you can soar and see and spin
look at your insides again
but don’t just look at the tissue pink view
while the sky spits and heaves
Run down in there!
roll in the bloodstone and bones
soak up the smell of death
Run back up the rock!
Peek out across the sun slanted vastness
and gasping for breath, ask yourself
What shall I sacrifice to keep this place sacred?

Marcy Marchello
March 20 1988 Earth First!


H. P. Lovecraft – A Garden


 
 
 
 
 
 
(From Wiki) Howard Phillips Lovecraft (August 20, 1890 – March 15, 1937) often credited as H.P. Lovecraft, was an American author of horror, fantasy and science fiction, especially the subgenre known as weird fiction.
 
Lovecraft’s guiding aesthetic and philosophical principle was what he termed “cosmicism” or “cosmic horror”, the idea that life is incomprehensible to human minds and that the universe is fundamentally inimical to the interests of humankind.
 
As such, his stories express a profound indifference to human beliefs and affairs.
 
Lovecraft is best known for his Cthulhu Mythos story cycle and the Necronomicon, a fictional grimoire of magical rites and forbidden lore.
 
 
 
 
 
 

There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
 
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
 
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
 
In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
 
There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.
 
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
 
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
 
Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:
For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes—the garden is my heart!
 
H. P. Lovecraft
 

 


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