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Bloodstains disgrace my stability
My will lies in ruins of impurity
Within the thresholds of catastrophe
I speak the words of heresy
I’ve witnessed the rape of liberty
I’ve burned the bridges of amnesty
Compassion is such an evil word
I stalk the path of blasphemy
…
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I’m Awake.
Chained by the twisted and fettered coils of benediction.
Revived only to wither and disparage those around me as they turn a blind eye.
Or do they merely ejaculate to disorder and lies?
Another mongering emperor with his twisted desires of semantic vengeance, peers over his slaves.
The recreant senate, whom through the blatant ulteriors, leads its pawns toward an already mated king.
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C. Allen Thompson – 2005
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War: narcotic of the malevolent.
Aphrodisiac to the impure.
Reward of treacherous mutiny.
Betrayal of all. Not just an end, but a means.
Like the theocratic monarchies of yesterday.
Over the maniacally slaughtered remains of those who defy ignorance.
Openly eviscerating those who would not deify them.
Dream I, that one day the weak shall not dominate the strong.
Behold: the new messiah of tyranny.
Upon his talons rests the blood of the innocent.
Surrounding those few, those without bended knees.
Honor will die with us.
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C. Allen Thompson – 2005
She sings out to the waters; the tides; the air aloft the glistening waves
Every fractal; every reflection; every beast in water or grave
Listens, she, to the air’s faint whispers; the voices of shadows; laments forgave
Forged aside a soon-setting sun, every pro in the earth engraved
….
Intoxicated by the twilight, by the sky soon silver-laved
Sauntering past the incoming tides she speaks to those, by the soil enslaved
….
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In presumed precedence, upon Ninmah’s existence, we heed.
Exalted breath foretell, from candles wick we bleed.
Ereshkigal of ancient Sumer drown forsaken in Abzu.
Abyss sucking, draining o’er tailored ground, renew.
A Moldavian priest stands upon Puripeak.
Looking down upon banshees, yearning feast.
Frightened is the hermit coming upon the rocky cliff, falling.
Banshees swarm as water splashes, transparent turns to crimson.
….
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Domina.
Seeking angels’ feathers to tether ‘neath the chill of her leather.
The sweat of the struggle; sweet agony of pleasure.
Such dusking weather, like a snake she slithers.
Seeking to whither all of the day’s come-hithers.
The tears of the innocent, her only true treasure.
Domina.
Under each gasping breath, her somber caress.
Brings the warmth of death from beneath her nightdress.
The earth is her playground, her labia, mine.
Falling together ‘neath the moon’s argentate shine.
Domina.
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C. Allen Thompson – 2012
It’s the cool wind of the night that hears my whispers;
that carries my words into the faint haze of the stars, hidden beneath an opaque blanket of clouds.
By the faint and yellow light of streetlamps, I sit on cleared stone.
Its frigid touch reminds me that I feel, even without empathy. Even without sympathy.
It’s the brisk wind of the night that cools my hands as the suburban city light surrounds me, denying entrance to the darkness of night.
Though cold, its warmth is like the warm embrace of a lover, the sweaty touch and moist lips that caress my skin.
In the night is where I feel the very touch that reminds me I’m alive.
It reminds me I must watch others through my struggles so they too can know what I feel at this moment.
A tear to know happiness; a wound to know comfort; the brisk wind of the night, to know the soothing warmth of day.
Subtly, I fade, so that I may shine tomorrow.
A Carnival of Fables 