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Poetry Magnum Opus

Canto IV: Eldritch’s Gyre(R)


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Is this phantasm veral? -- Present?

To play draftee was inevitable;

as burdens pulverize, strike and proceed;

I am left inert and palatable


with a trudge like Chaplin’s Tramp: Belying;

my esoteric murmurs, audible

till twilight’s crimson dusk’s deep hue

and keratin portends crucible --


what of saving grace?! Of Magdalen’s curse?

sitting among scorched rose and bone meal

expediting a means for dispersal

ordnance and muzzle, permeate* red;


silk trails effusive to opaque Cicada’s

for venus’s sails: vermilion.


*intended pronunciation: perm-e-aet



Metropilitan publications: Omitted October 12, 1880

Theatre: Pandemonium

A bang rings out, all lights dimmed, dimmed till barely a flicker exists, panic. That was the scene last night at

Elizabeth Marie Theatre. Elijah Williamson has been found dead inside his office as a result of what police

are stating as suspicious circumstances, but they are not ruling out suicide. Reports indicate that Williamson

was found with a gun in front of him and a mortal head injury that claimed his life. His body was half inside a

three circled pentagram, a candle at each point of the reverse star. Although never known as a satanist all indications

point toward a ritual act of death, a suspicious book of black magic found underneath Williamson’s body.

The actors lost amid the commotion were able to light candles and lamps and help to organize the bustling

and spooked crowd who directed police patrolling close by, the macabre scene being found by Elise D’Aubigne

who was closest when the single shot was heard. No explanation as yet has come to light in the investigation of

the blackout nor can an explanation be reached for all light bulbs to be unusable after the event. No other

blackouts have been reported inside the area since.

Williamson, director and playwright of such productions as Caesar, The Great and Tentative Lines, also a

notoriously private man is currently art’s director for Elizabeth Marie and leaves behind three children, a wife

and the memory of all fellow playwrights, directors, actors and actresses who have graced his presence.

-- August Tanner



The charcoal speckling

the nautical berber carpet,

completing the first of two centripetal lines,

then the upright star -- each silhouette

a grain of wood framing the onyx house --

exterior wall an imperial purple,

glass forged by all elements of earth.


The book decayed,

darkened, dried skin

leather from many an epoch --

a shadow of the amaranthine skylight --

pages thumbed adorned with archaic

illustrations of unascertained Thing’s,

some a truculent beast

or feral apparitions,

others a shrouded venue --

horizons among a Morianis terrene --

decrepit paper all inscribed with

crimson ink.


“Al Azif:

Said to be written

in the years following its

authors death in 738 B.C.,

it houses the knowledge,

history and means to contact

Yog-Sothoth and Cthulhu.”

“Why would I need this to cleanse my office?”

“Your office -- or what seems to be a portion --

is the root cause correct?”

“Yes... but-”

“And you’ve been suffering weeks

with head aches, nausea, panic attacks,

can’t sleep because you only have nightmares

which is when your attacks are worse

due to the nightmares reaching

the most entrenched of fears?”

“yes...” I answer recalling

many a night spent in the

rolandic fissures womb.



“Isa ya! Isa ya!

Ri ega! Ri ega!”

I begin in the inane, seemingly jibberish

language of the Someric text;

“bi esha, bi esha! Xiyilqa! Xiyilqa!”

An agley semblance suspends all protons

Chimborazolly, “duppira atlaka isa ya u ri ega.”


“Begin with a charm

to shield yourself from your spirits thoughts and environment-”

“Well -- what does my office exactly have professor?”

“By all indications a succubus type of apparition,

first it draws the fascination using a mesmerizing technique;

then it slowly drives the soul to insanity -- and finally death.”


“Shadu yu liktumkunishi,

shadu yu liklakanushi,”

I turn to the second page marked by Professor Krol

invoking the serpents of Kur;

“shadu yu lini yix kunushi,”

neutrons join in outré infringement,

a thermal nuclide at

the lip of a hissing fissure vent.


“If this Entity is what I think it is

then this spell should break through

its first barrier which by all indications

is thick with the souls of It’s past parishioners --

which should force It out into the open.”



Waves crash upon the shores,

pulsating at the fulcrum of eventide

dejecting clumps varied of a tyrannical

avocation, watercourses from Acheron to Styx

webbing the span of the oak panel

cracking as the ridges fill with anamnesis

and the soliciting of Lethe;


Avernus bolstering at the centers

second circle, light particles and atoms

now osmosing with the infinite reflection of presence.



It ululates, my teeth hidden

in the shadow provided by candles lit.


It scoffs;

“thou hath summoned Th’ Dark One --

for thy Will what is your Obolus?”

“I shall offer mine soul and body in exchange

for thine knowledge,”

silence is It’s sentiment.


“What is thy true name?”

Face unflinching;

“Nyarlathotep, I hath risen from thine melancholy

of twenty-seven century’s,”

a theta’s levee dissipating waves from imperceptible vocal folds.


“Of what reason doth thou collect souls of thy dwellers?”

“For, as Jupiter revolves a star and moons revolve Jupiter --

a moons fate is of an odyssey veiled --

though mine sun’s orders forbid no moon wander,

mine rule is unwavering and one mighty shall serve efficiently.”

That smirk though not apparent, dusk as my spherule of sweat

falls below event horizon.

“Who doth thou serve -- who is thine Sun?”

“thy serve many inquisitor of mine temple --

who doth thou serve?”

“thou is thy inquisitor Dark One --

may thine propose a true look at Nyarlathotep?”

a long stillness occurs.


Malodorous! The smell as a fog pours

from centre where a shadow slips,

commanding the crawling gloom --

my fists clinched -- preventing irresolute appearance

in the face of a creature nearing eight feet tall, as black

as the Oblivion that birthed It, sinciput ethereal to the roofs panelling.

“So thou see, this be Th’ Dark One thou seeks;

this be mine true form,”

Nyarlathotep lifts his arms,

a baleful storm envelops the roof above us

expanding well past the medians edge;

numerous shadows joining syndactyly from

torso to arm -- each shade becoming

a separate Entity -- an avian sphinx, faceless,

another standing of Pharoah like countenance;

others of anthropomorphism, one innocent, another of feigned appeal.


The more shadows propagated the more capacious

the odeum became for what my right hand was restraining

in the back within a neurone belt.

“Doth inquisitor Delaney tremble amongst

the breadth of Nyarlathotep?”

It asks in my atramentous effigy

comprehension lingering my mute

hymn reflecting discordia desideratum;

arm afflicting It’s chest in an anabatic motion

ten inches into it’s nihility, “R’Lyeh wgah’ nagl fhtagn”

probing The Dark One's left Ventricle --

“w’nafh Cthulhu” severing its semilunar valve --

a grey dulcet drifting from it inheriting an aphotic laughter

Nyarlathotep withdrawing It’s tempest of shades and effluvium

as I continue my ruinous mantra.


“This will be your absolver

for all those lost to the grifters gaze --

a dirk of great power.”


“Poor William, thine attempts are rooted amongst the vain --

for all thine hath accomplished is vanquishing

mine temple --”

“heh, mine advisor was correct --

thine vanity overpowers thine perception --”

the grey cresting it’s vent,

“thine inquisitor, now dispenser, is Kastle -- asshole -- “


grey rupturing into delirium

as gale winds respire apprehending

the tangible Dark One as a verticil into

the black circle,

“Akira is coming Kastle,

Akira is coming!”

“Who’s Akira?! Tell me who It is --

tell me!”

Torso almost consumed, a head and

left bicep brachii, brachialis, supinator

pronator teres and brachioradialis remaining

I advance, his bicep brachii glissading my fingers ridges,

laugh fading as gales extenuate with its source.



“is’ it over?”

I ask stopping my traipse

as William's latch and handle actuate right,

revealing a solitary anima,

his right hand out palming a raven dagger;

“your father's avenged --”

I smile as I gesture toward his offering.



The Lion Banner sways and falls in the horror-haunted gloom;

a scarlet Dragon rustles by, borne on winds of doom.

In the heaps the shining horsemen lie, where the thrusting lances break,

and deep in the haunted mountains, the lost, black gods awake.

Dead hands grope in the shadows, the stars turn pale with fright,

for this is the Dragon’s Hour, the triumph of Fear and Night.

- The Hour of the Dragon

by Robert E. Howard

by Jeremy Swyck









"Unbearable, isn't it? The suffering of strangers, the agony of friends.

There is a secret song at the center of the world, Joey, and its sound is like razors through flesh."


"I don't believe you."


"Oh come, you can hear its faint echo right now. I'm here to turn up the volume.

To press the stinking face of humanity into the dark blood of its own secret heart."

"There's a starving beast inside my chest
playing with me until he's bored
Then, slowly burying his tusks in my flesh
crawling his way out he rips open old wounds

When I reach for the knife placed on the bedside table
its blade reflects my determined face
to plant it in my chest
and carve a hole so deep it snaps my veins

Hollow me out, I want to feel empty"
-- "Being Able To Feel Nothing" by Oathbreaker


"Sky turns to a deeper grey

the sun fades by the moon

hell's come from the distant hills

tortures dreams of the doomed

and they pray, yet they prey

and they pray, still they prey"
-- "Still They Prey" by Cough


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  • 1 month later...

Ah, the restless Elizabeth Marie. I'd love to know where she's located. I'd venture to guess in your home city.


The arrangement is nice in this one: sonnet from before serving as an overture, news clipping, body of the poem, Howard poem serving as a finale albeit more of a wind down, a whimper. Very nice.



Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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Hi, This is a long one and I have been meaning to put aside time to read the whole thing. But before I do, could I make a suggestion. Abstract, please go back and add a topic tag to each of the 4 parts of this canto and simply say "Canto in 4 parts" on all 4 posts. (see in Discussion Forum my post on Linking poems.) By doing so, you will link all 4 parts so that anyone who wants to can read them all without searching page after page or going to your Archive page. (which was my intent later, gotta get my taxes done first)


Thanks, Tink

~~ © ~~ Poems by Judi Van Gorder ~~

For permission to use this work you can write to Tinker1111@icloud.com

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