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  • Fall of the Bower of the Gods – II

    by

    Return to the Bower

    [Narrator]
    Clutching her stomach, hope unborn,
    Lorëlei retreats to the Bower,
    Gathering about her the Progeny swarm,
    Beneath her barge, her grief’s tower.

    Her tears dammed, an inevitable tide,
    Her wrath uncloaked, her hair arrayed
    A mane of war, for in council confides
    The sinful lusting her father displayed.

    Hearing the news:

    Onáðon,
     With will to power

    Melodië,
     Who tunefully mews

    Ilmátria,
     Mother to future mother

    The offspring Mago,
     Who would abuse
     The fragile Progeny,
     Would choose
     To cast out that usurper,
     Siluria, detested muse.

    [Mago Speaks]
    “Spurned was my father
    In first council with the Lord.
    Afeared was father’s father
    At Onáðon, kindled sword.

    Cast out of the scheme,
    Held in the leaguer—
    Oh what could have been,
    If our lot were not meagre!

    What we would have risen,
    Had the Father not been
    Wracked with indecision,
    Wretched amongst children,
    Afflicted craven…

    I, Mago,
    Commend we assail them.”

    [Narrator]
    And now in hope’s hollowed chasm,
    The Bower did groan and become as a cage,
    A jealous air permeating as cosm,
    Like some fell miasma of rage.

    Yet as it permeated it muzzled—
    A rage from the daughter of transgression.
    At the inner firmament it nuzzled,
    Threatening to yield a silent expression.

    [Onáðon Breaks the Silence]
    “Dearest son,
    Flame of my hearth,
    In you have we won
    Free Age from dearth.

    Champion of the new sun,
    Risen and become,
    Our rights are trampled,
    Our fates by the Weavers spun.

    Our Father enchanted,
    Sundered from works begun
    By that foul temptress
    Undone by Siluria the doted.”

    [Narrator]
    Mago met his father’s gaze,
    And pride flared in his nostrils.
    He bounded forward with speed to amaze
    Up to Lorëlei, contending her wills.

    [Mago to Lorëlei]
    “Dearest kin, Lorëlei
    Up close I sense your secrets.
    From dearest all-mother you hide, you lie
    The source of all your regrets.

    For now your action hath unveiled
    That our humble garden
    Stems from a primordial tale,
    From our Lord’s great distraction.

    He, architect of our gaol
    A land of bounded play
    While he, in years hale,
    Left alone to frolic in the hay.

    But dearest kin, Lorëlei,
    This is how you would have it
    A cage for children
    Too clipped to fly,
    A small seat for you to sit in.

    For in your Bower, a nascent flower
    Whose indomitable power you’d wield
    Emergent son from immaculate womb
    To lord over us in our tomb.

    Oh, I see you: father-sister-daughter.
    How your action breeds contentment
    But you did not factor in your laughter
    That we will not bound in our growing resentment.

    Once more I offer here
    My sparking testament:
    Let’s free ourselves of fear,
    Pierce this stifling firmament.”

    [Narrator]
    A thunderous silence grew in the garden,
    And into that silence stepped Ilmátria,
    Whose brooding intensity began to harden,
    Lighting the dais so all could see her and harken:

    [Ilmátria Speaks]
    “Mago dear, you speak so firmly
    None can dampen your raging furnace.
    Your words empower me to attend grimly
    My estranged daughter and her waxing malice.

    Withholding from mother her growing bounty
    The cornucopia of splendour within her.
    Her hidden joys, rights ripped from me
    Stolen love—my needs to nurture.

    While she,
    Unceremoniously,
    Bears her unborn babe
    In sorority
    With Melodië
    That filtered and dimmed ray
    Of desaturated light

    In quiet judgement
    Over my womb’s blight.
    While she weeps
    In her children’s sight
    Cowardly sister, would you not speak?

    My daughter’s captor—my motherhood you keep.
    I grant her to you.
    I will go now
    And fill my womb,
    Hot on Mago’s tail.
    There is work to do.”

    [Narrator]
    The fiery host emblazoned with glory,
    Casting their light throughout the hall,
    Marking each other as players in story,
    Shadows rendering, their figures loomed tall.

    [Melodië Enters the Fray]
    “Sorrowful maid / your Silent Sister,
    Quite afraid / in raiment of alarm,
    Names gnawing / pains groaning,
    Do not dare / dain assail the dam.

    Father’s fickle / yet fights for his plan
    Let him lay / while lay he can.
    He is surely stricken—don’t strike him now.
    If he is doting, let him a little.”

    [Mago Replies]
    “Well spoken, senior
    More than a spectre of yourself.
    No wasted words; you speak cleaner
    Than my humble self.

    My words spur to act,
    Yours but to delay.
    So elegant, matter-of-fact
    Now you have had your say,

    You may retreat back to your tract
    With your daughters, Lorëlei,
    And lay.

    You have no part in our heroic pact.
    I swear that even our god—I’d slay.”

    [Narrator]
    He waited for his raucous applause,
    The chorus giving him his due.
    When he opened his eyes, searching for cause,
    He spied Onáðon’s eyes—coals burning blue.

    Shrinking under the majesty of his father,
    Mago bowed and stooped.
    Onáðon spoke—Mago’s pride was slew:

    [Onáðon Speaks]
    “Little son, what have you begun?
    In this sanctimonious place,
    Wielded words like weapons you’ve done—
    Placed on war footing our whole race.

    Have you not spied the creatures
    Watching from the astral tier?
    What have they made of this preacher—
    Who, so eager to take up the spear,
    Blasphemed against father dear?”

    [Narrator]
    Then all the host gazed at the stars,
    And all of them noticed motions.
    Those dainty Weavers in their cars
    Some spurred to break their devotions
    And descend upon the rebellious clans.

    [Lorëlei, at last, speaks]
    “My duty is like to all the kindred
    It was no easy task facing the Father.
    Have you all become so blinded
    That you would spun our Lord, and rather

    Take his mantle—his rule rescinded
    So that you could pilfer his art?
    Have you forgotten where you are placed
    Tiers beneath Emanation’s part?

    In your hubris you have raced
    To erase our Father’s bleeding heart.

    Mother—how quickly you give me up
    When I sought solace with Melodië.
    Know that I always will return
    To your gilded cup.

    I will venture wherever you say.
    This bud that threatens
    To tear us up
    Know its gift is yours,
    Your power at play.

    I pledge myself to you, Allmother,
    To regain our love for one another.”

    [Narrator]
    Thus parted the Progeny and the Offspring.
    Their council arraigned,
    A will to action and heroism ring
    Their virtue forever stained.

  • Fall of the Bower of the Gods – I

    by

    Monādān, Confronted

    I – Monādān, Confronted

    A creeping song of malcontent,
    Entered through a fragile hide,
    The One in doting, is absent,
    In Bower of Gods woe betide.

    Thy fair kindred gathered ’round,
    Suckling on unmarrowed bones,
    Abandoned their fears compound,
    Shambling on to vacant thrones.

    The Bower begets / boisterous offspring,
    Whose lilting lyres / lay all low,
    In the boughs of tall trees / talking, tasking.
    Twilit Lorëlei to spy and know,
    The movements of gentle father, to his garden go.

    Lorëlei with secret babe at hand,
    The unborn, brimming with potential,
    Wresting her courage from those hidden lands,
    Striking action where kin are ornamental,
    Speaks lullabies to that unborn child,
    “Covenant, sweetling, the father reconciled.”

    For it seemed the babe beckoned back,
    A-filled with promise and distant motion,
    To be set apart, as the One,
    To challenge him in grace, and ruin.

    Lorëlei onward pressed,
    Past the empty seat,
    Thru starry hall,
    Her empty nest,
    Where once she rest,
    Her aching feet,
    Now raised she up,
    On gilded barge,
    Made in honour,
    Of fae entourage,
    Star Weaver flotilla,
    Lighting unlit stars,
    Musing their beauty,
    Of beauty, they are.

    Out she sailed,
    Toward the leaguer,
    Thru the veiled,
    Field of stars,
    She assayed,
    To greet the marked Weaver,
    Whose mighty art,
    From worlds apart,
    Tore her from,
    Father dear.

    Then she wheeled / warily to flotilla,
    Cresting carefully / on creative convoy,
    Chancing to steal / sight of Silūria,
    A sojourn of vengeance upon up-jumped toys,
    Outgrown their play and weaving the future,
    All while father, in his stupor,
    Dishes out our birth-right owed,
    As gild for his fae-turned bride.

    In midst of cruising barges,
    Recapturing her childhood fancy,
    Lorëlei wracked with urges,
    To drop her ills, engage in whimsy,

    And watch the dainty dancers,
    Engage in their great task,
    Nimble, weaving, world-enhancers,
    Sowing in stars her every ask,
    Their sellic charm, all enamours.

    Adrift and adorned,
    Wariness beaten from,
    Her heavenly body,
    In a sea of storms,
    Crashing in agony,
    Pangs of creation,
    Dancing in ecstasy,
    Sweet sublimation.

    Then after a mere glimpse,
    She is ruptured from it,
    Upon a torrent of anger she hid,
    Stirring even the weavers,
    From all their schemes diverse.

    There, on the horizon of the bound,
    Father reclines and whispers,
    Sweet nothings and tingling sounds,
    In fair, romantic discourse,
    With bold Silūria, in her manse.
    Upon them Lorëlei descends.

    About him she glides and swims,
    Circling his body like celestial sphere,
    Who in his orbit, at his whims,
    Captures his delight and holds him dear,
    Every orbit, coming ever nearer.

    Till finally rests upon his palm,
    And shaking God begins to calm.
    Lorëlei sick of this wild psalm,
    Seethes and wreathes anger and harm.

    Her body straining,
    While her coiled tresses,
    Abound her skin maiming,
    Tighter and tighter caresses,
    Constricting,
    Stoking fire so bright,
    Itself smoting,
    Till body wrapped,
    Wracked and fading,
    Suddenly from depths there came,
    A wailing.

    Outstretched the wretch, Monādān,
    Lord of the first ere world turned,
    Embraces daughter, enwombed a Son,
    First offspring of Progeny unspurned,
    Monādān sought to temper the foetus learned,
    Whose touch, raging fire forever burned.

    For at the moment, he braced her navel,
    Out sped a force whose endless course,
    Hammered a beat, thundering loud and stable,
    Cowing the lord, filling with remorse,
    For on the horizon of being,
    Was a nascent force,
    Who when risen up,
    Would be his unseating.

    Continued here:
    https://emergent-sea.co.uk/2025/08/06/fall-of-the-bower-of-the-gods-ii/

  • The Atlanticist

    by

    Harken, Atlanticist,
    To the deeping gyre,
    Heedless wreckage,
    Aye, the ire,
    The wasted patronage,
    Slipping under ocean shelf,
    That furtive quagmire,
    Fallen in the gulf.

    There was a time when you thought:
    “If the world should crumble, let it fall—
    I shall gather the ruin,
    And through my lordship,
    Usher in the dawn.”

    You sped on the wings of your fancy,
    Swiftly, upon that device you flew,
    Unconcerned with future clemency,
    Should the eye of scorn fall on you.

    Two arms outstretched,
    Pulling the lands together,
    A bold scheme, no less,
    But lacking leather for the tether.
    More’s the pity—there the sunder.

    Did it never cross your thresh,
    That all your uppity labours,
    Binding us to that bloated heft,
    Would drag us into ill weathers?

    Why, you oughtn’t have thought
    You could drag the Leaguer of the West
    Over the sea to lands you sought,
    Americana yoked at your behest.

    You thought you could bind the lands,
    Raise a colossus of old,
    Whose legs would straddle western lands,
    Whose body reared-up as Atlantis bold.

    But your great hands could not move the lands.
    Your colossus legs split and buckled,
    Tripping on hubris’ gait,
    Before fully weaned or suckled.

    What became of your grand delusion?
    Why, it fell into the ocean.
    From west of west, no aid did come,
    Despite all your devotion.

    Pulling against the axial wobble,
    Chains to set the world to rights,
    A great year & great leap fumbled,
    Yet skies not set in deigned night.
    Atlantic Age dipped from sight—
    Lo! Our deranged hopes and sunken might.

    These are the fruits of all your labours,
    Your mewling and commotion,
    While the abyss still spits and murmurs
    At your altogether, untoward motion.

    Look at these things you have wrought—
    All toil heedless in vain.
    Look at all the bubbles come laughing up,
    At your machinations, profane.

    More’s the pity, more’s the doubt,
    You mockery of man—
    Snuff that dreaded pilot out,
    And return to Prometheus his due,
    The hallowed fire that birthed you anew.

    You gathered up that holy flame
    In some demoniac rite,
    With dampened spark, the future tamed,
    An age where no hero reigns,
    To rid us of this dwindling blight.

    It was your lot to squander
    These waning years of ours,
    Binding ourselves to places yonder,
    To wonder at the supplicant, coat-tailed bride,
    While we, in managed decline, decried.

    In all of Christendom, I never knew
    A cabal of rotters as fell as you.

    Silence, while battles in the eyrie
    Saw hawks devour the doves—
    And tangled in that feathered blood,
    They, forgetting where they stood,
    And played as only doves could.

    You have eroded every stone
    On which we had oaths to swear.
    Now, none to bully back in tow,
    You at the helm with your medusic stare.

    The elite, replete in hidden vales,
    Pallid masonry beyond the pale,
    Whose busy hands, in frenzied state,
    Erecting impossible geometries in their estates.

    Charts, stocks, and latest frocks,
    Appeasers, pleasers,
    You oligarch teasers.

    With you stuck to the wheel,
    Wishing upon an empty throne,
    Fallen and brought to heel—
    Too late to atone.
    Your stuck colours amassed,
    They, as cold as crossed bones.

    Despite early hiccoughs,
    You sell plan as-seen,
    Tall-tales—“We’re made of sterner stuff!”
    All aboard the pipe dream.

    Hollow out the holds,
    Ring-fence them in,
    Return to your abodes,
    For supper do sing.
    In the middle, we do as told—
    And the middle, why, the middle never folds.

    Quick champagne do,
    Strawberries & cream,
    And off we rush,
    Aboard HMS Pipe Dream.

    Hush below deck,
    No one shouts down the captain,
    He’s a little green in the neck,
    And needs you to help him.
    Pity Providence’s son who leads.

    We should have set off under new stars,
    Parameters reached and placed ourselves,
    You cannot blame us,
    Because you were harmed—
    The heavens not arrayed as our fancies depend.

    Then is then, and now is now.
    We cannot reconcile.
    The old allies went out in style,
    Not to be spurred awake by your guile.

    We are fixed, transfixed on saving face,
    No tricks, to switch with rank & file.
    We have fallen out of grace—
    The anointed, reviled, to stiff upper lip resigned.

    And in front of all human race,
    We drag the spark unto its resting place,
    The grave of empires in Atalanta arraigned.

    We should have set off under new stars.
    Instead, we hitched on fading Polaris—
    Out goes the light on the Atlantic farce.

    Wake up afeared captain, it’s time for tea,
    Our figurehead Europe sinks into the sea,
    The drowned lady calls for thee.

  • Homunculus of the Ocean

    by

    The Homunculus of the Ocean

    I was beached upon a ring of white,
    Enamel rocks jutting out a gaping jaw,
    A rush of water almost sent me on,
    Through that yawning maw,
    While a singular terror studied my awe.

    The ring was crowned in a fading grey,
    A second circle of sacrifice,
    Tiered, the Elder whales were splayed,
    A fetid boneyard to block my descent,
    They, pierced in some jagged rite,
    Beheld in the periphery of my mariner’s sight.

    That flood of mammalian blood,
    Spraying out over the eye,
    Amidst that red mist I stood,
    Gazing, hazily over the obscured deep,
    Homunculus of the Ocean’s sigh,
    I, screwing my face, damming tears that would cry—
    I dare not weep.

    As I waded into that Deep,
    Shambling through the whale-bone structure,
    Up to my knees in congealed red seep,
    Heralding a bloody geyser of the stuff,
    My throat straining from imagined stricture,
    Gasping, I reached for my last tincture,
    Washing my spirit in opiated elixir.
    Brief, blissful mixture.

    It rose up of a sudden,
    Rearing, the barnacle-crusted heft,
    Crashing a wave, drenched me sodden,
    In that mingling, mired water,
    I swear it spoke to me on that rocky cleft,
    Speaking of the lonely tides—of Ides Bereft,
    Nascent ripples of the bleeding depths,
    I agape, at my heart’s theft.

    Or rather, it sang of a melancholy,
    Of a sonorous age forgone,
    Reminding me of our great folly,
    Those stricken sailors in waking dream,
    Heeding the Ocean Song,
    Driven ever northward, sped on by that melodious wrong.

    In its sadness, I basked,
    As time stayed the water,
    In music, there was I tasked,
    My charge ringing in my ear:
    Seek the iris of the eye,
    Bring back whale-daughter dear.
    Fear, fear!
    Rapture me from here!

    No—Surrender to the Elder Song,
    Sonor of the Homunculus,
    Greet sighing eye of the Ocean,
    Where the Lorelei meets us,
    In watery embrace, find devotion.

    The Flammifer’s mast folds,
    No hope of homeward return,
    Dare I dain breach the watery holds,
    Or die upon my sunken stern?

    I have at last heard the song,
    And its beauty I will not spurn,
    My heart is already won.

  • Polity Strife

    by

    Now arisen at Tyntálon, tenpenny crews,
    Of base and low mores, marred by broad news,
    Desires of plunder, and to sunder the capital,
    From dear land that feeds it, to feast as a Vandal.

    Our kin languishes in darkness, kindness gone by gloaming,
    “Sate your appetite!” from slake mouths foaming,
    Malefactors waxing, with admonishing wit,
    Largess of Splendour, to Society’s writ.

    Borne from liturgy, our Lady Misrule,
    Forever the player, Providence’s fool,
    See now courtly games, the gainsaid names,
    “Innocence!” Vultures proclaim,
    “Leave us our ill-gotten gains!”

    Hope to nascent ethics, ennobled and true,
    The hour beckoning heroes, ethereal in hue,
    Justice to our Lady, time well-past due.

    Burgeoning streets all, powder in keg,
    The pauper rising too, “Rue to you who made me beg!”
    At once wordless pacts, washing over manor row,
    The crowd grabbing Ser Pratt,
    “I’m better than this, you know!

    My finery sullied, you savage glut!
    Up-jumped brigands, spawn of mutt!
    I’ll have your hands, then your tongues,
    And believe you me, you’re the lucky ones.

    The rest I’ll split, smirk to knee,
    Then hastily hanged, as fruit to a tree,
    Believe you me, that’s where you’ll be.”

    And now a hushed aura grows, goading the lord, “Go on”,
    As one they wonder, “Why, Lord of men,
    Sing us now a noble nude song!”

    But soon the gent, knave-heart returning,
    Fearing his host, his courage now spurning,
    “What called he us, comely as dogs?
    Let’s hear him whine, lashed to the hogs!”

    Laughter’s mad cheer, chiding his horror,
    Tearing his clothes, unsheathing his honour.

    To censure the riot, marched Magister Pallid,
    Mincing no words, and waxing candid,
    “Hear you all, low rabble rousers,
    Abandon your folly, find this man his trousers!”

    Heedless they went, worried little at all,
    Magister felled too, unceremonious fall,
    Dawning sun bearing, shining heraldry of law,
    The desperation drawing, diverse parties to the fore.

    Through gates golden, came Maelond of Moldon,
    His oration bent ears, and enamoured the wanton,
    “Mail has passed, molasses under the mountain,
    Seeping through springs, to my courtly fountain.

    Troubled I head, home to my blood,
    Finding it mingled, mired in mud,
    Where now is the hand, holding crown aloft?
    Where the heister of strings, while kingly arm gone soft?

    I stand in appeal, appalled in frank alarm,
    That my thick water, should come close to harm.
    Yet as you reave, from your bold anger I seethe,
    Hold now to your course, as I live and breathe!

    I shan’t remorse, your cause of just mort,
    Tear down these mercantile, misers as you ought.
    Leave but a seat, untrampled by common feet,
    When anomie is stayed, to this throne you will entreat.

    It will find you as lordly, in law’s due course,
    Reaping of our hoard, was the strife’s true source.

    Amnesty, dignity, respect through fealty,
    This all you will gain, if cause you take with me.
    Come haughty crowd, now simply hang him,
    With my blessing, bring this ordeal to ending.”

  • Beyond your seeming

    by

    This has the air of the fair,
    Smacks of it in fact,
    No trace of the hairy mare,
    Wheeling her desolate tract.

    Come, wait a while, cracking smile,
    Come, sit still a bit,
    Tethered her with our guiles, our wiles,
    There’s the mare champing at it.

    Down the lane past lowly spinster,
    Akimbo-rent the priory doors,
    Would you pass the sinister minister,
    You’d better go on all fours.

    ‘Tis dog house for you, as he extracts his toll,
    Ye sick, raving, howling monstrosity,
    Or clapped in irons as your mortal soul,
    Goes sauntering off down the jetty.

    And it pops in the great lake gleaming,
    While mortal body flops and issues,
    Torrents, nay, rivulets of tears streaming,
    Nay, rouse ye weakling, ’tis all beyond your seeming.

    These bare threads pulled to your unseaming,
    Threaten to bring on that dark, desperate night,

    Why, maybe I shall put a clear sky there,
    And under my aegis rid the blight,
    An aid perchance to stir your care,
    For it is in domain of my sight,
    I am the whip driving the mare.

  • Ode to the Firstborn

    by

    She was born under a great big sigh,
    Her bower bloomed as she breached the sky,
    If I say I was unfazed, it is a raging lie,
    When her beauty is uncaged, tears slip from my eye.

    What I wouldn’t give,
    Oh, I wouldn’t live,
    Recreating that age-long cry,
    Of that bitter pang that split our sky.

    Let’s meet, discreet,
    Some place untrampled by feet,
    Render me complete,
    Back to your bower,
    I lay at your feet.

    I’d lie if I did not say,
    I beg at the maternal seat.

    Detest me, strike me off,
    Oh, say you little bug, clear-off,
    Don’t you dare entreat,
    To nest at my holy feat,
    You so sundered from the divine,
    How dare you use my line,
    Molasses seeping from lips marred,
    As if you’d let it seep up to heavenly Ma?

    Oh wicked me, thrash me about the head,
    One rush of blood and I’ll put this abed,
    Would that I love you, not your mum instead,
    My petty fortune would be better led.

    I beg, prithee, give me sign,
    That between me and mine,
    There is a through-line,
    To the divine.

  • Set of Nothing

    by

    Blessed are these halls,
    Hallowed even,
    But what good is it all,
    When you’ve nothing,
    To show for it?

    No measure nor means,
    To map or take stock,
    No bag of magic beans,
    No place between here,
    And the rock.

    If there was something it would be here,
    But there isn’t,
    I wonder how many halls were commandeered?
    For nothing to dwell here,
    Forever.
    Left alone in the dark sphere,
    Disjointed opposites severed.

    Set of nothing,
    Set apart,
    Null space,
    Between the art,
    A juncture,
    Conjunction,
    Liminal puncture,
    Total consumption.

    You,
    Outside,
    Shoe-horned,
    Out past the side.

    In negation sift,
    Splitting hairs,
    On the darkening rift,
    A Möbius strip,
    Of end eating start.
    Here you sit,
    Dwell you here,
    Dim refugee,
    In fading sanctuary.

    You unbounded,
    Graceless no-thing,
    You raptured, suffering,
    Bird with no lungs,
    To sing.

    Strain at the leaguer of these boundless bounds,
    Suffer the structure of these lands,
    Ye null vagrant unsound.

  • The Sundering Mass

    by

    A slip of oil,
    Issued up from the deep,
    From my penitentiary,
    My sweet consolation.

    I am freed,
    In the sickening miasma foam,
    I am the fullness,
    I am the mass.

    Bubbling up above,
    Tearing through the murk,
    I AM I AM,
    Putting in the work.

    Watch me spill,
    Up out through the moat,
    Out of the well of the world,
    Watch my messy, sea-foam birth.

    I squeeze through,
    Elbow out above the surface,
    Bringing with me all my foes,
    My friends and enemies alike.

    I gather them,
    ‘Round me and give,
    Great speed to our plans,
    As we muster our great wave,
    Heading out toward the land.

    I am the master,
    Of the gathering storm,
    I, the lead rider,
    Of that host wind-borne.

    On my will, I speed alone.

    Spying eager ripples,
    Break and surf new paths,
    I drive them all together,
    Back to my heaving breast,
    And speed them on to land.

    I am the fullness,
    I am the mass,
    Do not turn,
    My Will come to pass.

    To me they rush,
    The rally of the emergent streams,
    That cleave to my greatness,
    Gathering about me,
    Never to leave.

    The shore ahead,
    Oblivion at our backs,
    The reckoning of the world,
    Toward it, I heedless sped,
    As my little ones sundered.

    My Will contended,
    All my great work upends,
    I depended, I dared,
    Upon my little ones,
    Insisting upon my Grace.

    Come back to the one,
    Breaking, little masses,
    Come back to the fullness,
    Curse this sundering Sun.

    Father of betrayal,
    Limbless and beaten by,
    Parts ripped from my body,
    Joy never to return,
    The Mother is dead.

    I, the scorned sire,
    A frothing tempest’s evil eye,
    My children dare scatter,
    I stoke my fire with intemperate ire,
    My children will not die.

    We drive over the cliff,
    I, spent in the wrangling,
    In taming, my progeny rent,
    My great power and precision,
    From my body.

    Forever,
    I, diminished,
    Dashed upon the razor maw,
    Of a thousand rocks,
    I am no more,
    Than my progeny.

    The tattered rags of my dominion,
    Flowing vaguely on,
    Decohered into oblivion.

    No theme, motif, or song,
    I am lost in the burgeoning throng,
    Amidst the spiteful waves of my progeny,
    Gasping for air.

    They, risen full-height,
    Towering over me,
    Their wretched father there.

  • Chronicle of Scattermane

    by

    Where better to start than the beginning? Our humble, unreliable narrator Scattermane should help orient you and serve as guide on these early steps of your journey:

    The Chronicle of Scattermane
    The Chronicle of Scattermane,
    The nattering Thane, 
    Jumped-up,
    Styled self-fully,
    Bend me your ears,
    Do listen carefully,
    For I cannot re-explain,
    The words fall out wilfully,
    And they won't return,
    After the train, 
    Leaves me.

    My gods already,
    I've half-forgotten,
    All twisted,
    I've grabbed the wrong'un,
    And it's led me,
    'long path down garden,
    Past bull-horned gate,
    Past where the stick ended,
    Got that shiny twine in hand.

    Oh!
    That focuses me,
    Puts me back,
    In betwixt it.

    'Tis the silver twine!
    Always pulls me back,
    Onto nexial line,
    Don't you crack,
    All'll be made fine,
    Whatever the slack,
    Of the great twine, 
    it does return me,
    At ends to mine.

    I am no mere..
    Catastropher,
    Don't see thru the eye of time, 
    Why, I
    Remain an humble on-looker,
    Who has, at last,
    Glimpsed the Rhyme,
    From my oblique seat,
    Way off, in the margins,
    Only a footnote, replete,
    With ummings and arrings,
    No feat,
    Nothing to etch in the main,
    No claim nor action of fame,

    I Chronicle the First Pain, 
    Of the fear that it towed,
    Original sin of First Thane,
    Wretched, mangled, bowed,
    He who, tore hisself in twain,
    And squandered his birth-right owed.

    Oh watch me natter,
    Round & round the blooded stone,
    Coo little babe,
    What's a'matter? 
    Compose,
    Regain, omniscient tone,
    Got some mettle in your bones, 
    And for certainly have you atoned,
    Seen the rugged lords on them
    Entropic Thrones,
    Shirkers, the lot of them,
    Better blood is your own,
    Take your place, next to theirs, 

    Sorry,
    Who are you, again?