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Sunday, May 20th, 2001

Time Event
1:50a
the beast is dead
my bed is my casket on the ocean floor,
rock and water laden
my arms and legs braided in the sheets
of a coral iron maiden
he's curled up on my chest again,
no rest again
he's nursing through my breast,
past the lung and skin,
drawing out the breath and blood within

this villain invisible
of warm, living steam
nightly returns while I dream
to feed on my soul
'til he fattens and slows
and out the window he blows

i'll wake in the morning an older man,
icy and anemic,
the ache in my head having crowded my ears
and pinched off my vision
my water-gourd all empty,
half the milk enjoyed
his gluttony full spent,
(he always eats too much)
the ghost'll leave the strawberries untouched

phantom unfathomable
glides across my mirror
turbulent and sheer
his vaporous contours churn the air
as he passes near

he never really strays
he visits in the day
hovers in a corner while i write
he's no shape but a gas
a mute and jealouse mass
growing impatient for the night

in my garden, i once smelled him
coming down the rows
i saw a flower pick itself
and count a question on its petals
once the last one dropped away
the plucked, suspended Rose
fell and i smelled the ghost fly fast away

as i wrote my notes, one day,
his steely odor sharpened
a heavy force encased my hand
and soon controlled the quill
i saw a name write itself,
i heard my voice give utterance,
afterwhich, the Horla fled,
relinquishing my will

stranger intangible
sucking out my life
his hunger will kill me as I sleep
he syphons my soul
and he's drunk as it flows
and out the window he blows

i set out berries, water, and milk,
wait in my bed and pray
that the stench of the kerosine
soaked through the house
won't scare the Horla away
when he starts to collect like a fog in the room,
when he slides up the sheets, i leap to my feet
i jam his escape, throw my lamp at the door,
a fire floods quickly along the floor
the torent ripples up the walls
we're quickly trapped in hell
but now, at least, i'm know
i'm not alone inside my cell

i scream: "Cruel, demonic cloud!
you've made of me a slave,
but can you still be master
if your dinner misbehaves?

my house is my casket made of crackling wood,
smoke, and seering metal
shrinking down, the Horla shrieks
like a boiling kettle
i'm turning black and blistering,
but i'm free again
i'm shedding like a rose
my bones bake 'til they glow,
and out the window I blow

Current Mood: uncertain

2001/05/20
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