Cosmic horror played the killing school That taught the writer of chilling ghouls This was the bogeyman's secret in his tomb That rose up from the barren gothic womb
This was where a dark demon became a faceless god The place where nothing sinister ever felt odd Those from the mythos have preferences as to how to die And who it is they'll prefer being killed by
Who can see inside a dark psycho's demented brain Who is it that rides that long, Hell-bound train His world is filled with the macabre and dark fantasy This is where he hid the beast who lived up in the abbey
The devil's staircase held a lit candle in glass Past which the unholy would never be able to pass Until the keeper met the secret opener of the way And at last, Jack the Ripper had his murderous day
Some may seem to be mild and part of the ordinary But turn out psychotic murderers in their duality Unsuspected details unravel into a graven situation And who is to really who or what is the actual creation
Who can see inside a dark psycho's demented brain Who is it that rides that long, Hell-bound train His world is filled with the macabre and dark fantasy This is where he hid the beast who lived up in the abbey
Robert Bloch wrote silently like a haunter of the dark He knew black magic, but he never knew the werewolf's bark The time came, as it does, to wound the souls of all heels But only a writer like this can count all personal Hells
Some may seem to be mild and part of the ordinary But turn out psychotic murderers in their duality Unsuspected details unravel into a graven situation And who is to really who or what is the actual creation
There, in the darkest dark of all the forgotten portions Lies the rested way of the vampire's scorn and devotion Human sacrifice is needed for the bad to reach immortality To hate this as a way of life is only human sentimentality
All of us seek to live on in life or in our life's legacy Just axe Lizzie Borden or anyone known as half-legendary Imaginative tales ravel themselves around dark midnight Knowing that real bad friends hide in disorder until the light
Who can see inside a dark psycho's demented brain Who is it that rides that long, Hell-bound train His world is filled with the macabre and dark fantasy This is where he hid the beast who lived up in the abbey
Some may seem to be mild and part of the ordinary But turn out psychotic murderers in their duality Unsuspected details unravel into a graven situation And who is to really who or what is the actual creation
(c) October 11, 2024 Michael Doyle All Rights Reserved
“Measures are too often decided, not according to the rules of justice and the rights of the minor party, but by the superior force of an interested and overbearing majority.” – James Madison
“Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influence of the earth.” – Henry David Thoreau
Painting away your day As old records play Each portrait painted with feeling Is nothing less than soul-revealing
That is to say about the painters' ways Not of the sitter, despite honoring his days Spending time on crafting the right impression This is hard felt at the artist's confession
The curve of your lips excites history A phantom lover lives by his mystery Disobedience is deemed the original virtue As we rewrite history, making it less true
All great ideas live on as our art Immorally ours and dangerous to the heart The genius of this needs no explanation The evil of this defies all rationalization
The controlling eyes limit what the artist sees To only his sense of desired possibilities It's not as simple as anyone's skill set But just enough polish to slip past the regrets
The innocent are too often used as pawns Until finally, all the survivors are gone A thousand years masks the overwhelming pain But nothing, even truth, confesses what is plain
The curve of your lips excites history A phantom lover lives by his mystery Disobedience is deemed the original virtue As we rewrite history, making it less true
All great ideas live on as our art Immorally ours and dangerous to the heart The genius of this needs no explanation The evil of this defies all rationalization
The madman is confident that no one sees The knife blade felt with much indignity Thrown to the wolves of his depravity He wonders if there is someone else to be
In the strangeness of life, death takes a holiday There are too many sorrows to drink away A deal made under duress is a deal not made Yet, the madman and the saint are equally unafraid
(c) October 10, 2024 Michael Doyle All Rights Reserved
Heading out of Australia to escape this Aussie winter. First stop Japan, then UK/Ireland and if work doesn't call me back, onto Chicago. I will make it up as I go along
