For Frank Belknap Long, Poet at the Gates of Wonder


Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.

When he comes from his sleep in the dusky havens
To the squat foothills of Tsang
At the base of the dolorous mountain
Ringed-heavy with moisture and green and silence,
To laugh, to feast -- that insatiable visitation upon opulent flesh,
The poems, the music,
Will be as a hurricane
Penetrating from life to life to life.
Only bones and dim stains -- the truth of dark chaos,
Shall he leave upon the rocks.

In the empty space of his temple,
Cluttered with dust the winds have not swept away
And deranging secrets from moments long ago
His immortality measures, and remeasures in dreams like illnesses,
Images, tainted by time's grave,
Of lustrous dark red currents of reluctant fragile things
Rampant with ruin's lesson.

In the primal forest, dense of teakwood and bamboo,
Where stalking shadows like serpentine coils weave undulant textures,
And even the great cat painted in orange and night-line stripes
Fears to pad,
All lesser creature are loath
To summon up their voices or breathe,
As the vapors of his inexorable hunger arise
From the ebon caverns beneath.

O Elephantine-headed Father
Of the Miri Nigral and Tcho-Tcho man-demon,
What doom-destined om sounds in thy vast webbed ears?
What cosmic wheel spins,
And in its ageless dervish rotations
Brings the days closer
To the call to swift running harvests unending?

O Chaugnar Faugn,
Bloated Feaster of jet-tusks and conduit trunk,
Fattened on oceans of claret red,
What darkling meditations dost thou beguile in,
Sitting, lotus-poised, before the scarlet mandalas
So long ago employed as stepping stones
To ford the cold heavens?

O Grim Legend of the East,
Slumbering on thy pedestal of foulsome dreams aflame,
Awaiting the White Acolyte's coming
And thy journey from cold, far corners,
Wake from thy unbending contemplations,
For the ripe fruit of your garden gleams.
Rise from that perfect darkness
To the dense woods of confused blood dreaming of escape.
Rise up, Idle One --
Multitudes, phantoms of nothingness though they know it not,
Await thy taking of softness and fear with particular pleasure.

Come to me now, Irresistible Mountain,
bring Thy new day of barren, terrible night!
Come to me, Sleeping Emperor,
refresh Thyself.
Hear Thy acolyte, Chaunger Faugn,
meditate no longer in Thy exile of inanimate solitude,
come laugh the conqueror's laugh that rends all asunder --
Lose Thy roar, full sore, that all may become omnipresent silence.
Open Thy great hand -- man's grave,
that all may see the vicissitude illuminated.
Here is the map drawn of my passions,
come from the labyrinths of Hell
and collect Thy accounts due.
Take their wits and ingenuity and emblems,
Take their memoirs and melancholies,
Come Immutable Triumph --
bind all to thy maw of annihilation
for clemency has been irrevocably damned.
Come with the ferocius tools of Thy holy frenzy blazing,
and overturn their vulgar wisdom.
Come, Lord of Desolation,
Thy brides despairing, bloom!

O Swollen One,
Vast in thy abandonment so like a dance,
When the Night of All Nights,
That perfect nothingness after thy feasting,
That void as barren as the very beginning, is the All --
Will you then, reclining in repose, be contented,
Or will you, Elemental-Predator, once again beset by wounding thirsts, dream
Of bones and dim stains upon the rocks?


© 1999 Edward P. Berglund
"Scarlet Obeisance": © 1999 Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. All rights reserved.
Graphic © 1999 Erebus Graphic Design. All rights reserved. Email to: James V. Kracht.

Created: August 17, 1999; Updated: August 9, 2004