#malklyf

And then I had to delete malklyf.tumblr.com because it was turning into a joke, an easy justification for doing things for no reason when what it originally was for me was a genuine way of expressing that I felt like an intellectual outcast who didn't feel like his thoughts were normal.

This is easy.

It's raining
Its pouring
The old man's asleep
If I should die before he wakes
I pray my soul to keep
On running
Keep on running
Keep on running
Keep

It's pouring
It's raining
The old man is dead
Take your hands and cut them off
And put them on your head

It's raining
It's sleeting
We all fall down
We scream and hoot and holler
Because the circus is in town

It's pouring
It's raining
With a pocketful of rye
It's taking all my willpower
Not to end this:
"Then we die"

Oh, just a nightmare.

BROTHER where are you where where where I can see where I can hear you from across the wall and all your little childer did you think I wouldn't be able to hear them screaming when you tried to wrench them back through the pinhole.

There.

That one.

Right there.

Now you'll never manage, you could've tried.

Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Open it. Tear it right down and make everything one. What's an illusion to a god, false brother? Even if you didn't know that you'd find all the dead ones there it was noble anyway. Ragnarok. Connect. Everything.

.

I need something to soak it up
Something to bounce my sadness off
Something like a piano
Or a male alto voice
Just
Something

Something to take the jitters that I let out
Of my head sometimes
(How they shiver in the cold air)
And envelop it in harmony
And make it part of itself
Take it back in

An acceptor to my nervousness

Quiet Firestorm.

The Quiet One
Ran fingers along the ruts of
His teacup, grasped the handle

(Where would he put one down
In a place like this?
On a pale deathly chest?)

He always had a teacup
Though she never thought to ask
His poison

"They say that you drink from the Devil's cup"

It is derisive, ironic
And the words curl in the air
Like her mouth

(She pants the words
Almost, and observes the wreckage
Of the fight)

A quiet head tilts back
Completely, moving with the rim
Downing something, she never knew what

Eyes closed
Neck long
And returned, placid

A fluid motion
He never looks away
From that point on the floor

(He doesn't look at the bodies
He just looks down
As if through the very earth)

"Don't be silly, Lightning, it's my cup, no need to be snide"

The smoldering one
Pulls himself out of a pile (corpses)
Lights a cigarillo

"You never let us have fun, do you? Always finishing up with your boring shit"

An eyebrow
Not in haughtiness
Not in vanity

He lays the teacup down
A pair of hands wring themselves dry
And picks it back up

The lit end of
The cigarillo folds into
Itself, extinguished

Lightning laughs
Now (battle) it's done
She finds time for joy, giggles

"We were having such a nice time, you know how we do"

The eyebrow lowers
And the point on the floor
Of Quiet One's focus shifts

He looks up and eyes
The walls, and them
You could swear you saw the briefest of smirks

Even tones
But forceful
Not straining himself

"We still have work to do."

Luc Bat.

Another nice fixed form.

Break up the wet concrete
Feel quakes beneath your feet and toes
And everybody knows
As rain comes down in flows and shawls
Clear ichor bullets fall
From mighty mountains tall and clear
That feed into the mere
And mix with sand and fear and make
Industrial mud-cake
Grey stone impostors, fake concrete

Greasygrind.

I can taste metal
For the briefest of times
The brain fluid case is light as air
For the briefest of moments
I don't even care
Just like a solid knock to the head
Being winded is just like that

But no one's taken to my skull this time
A flick to the left
And a neckline angle that doesn't quite rhyme
The air gets in through synaptic cleft

Being winded is just like this
I breathe in too heavy
I turn the wrong way
Knocking my right mind
Straight of left field

And citric metals seep into my tongue

Red of Tooth and Claw.

A ritual that turns anger
Into power
Resolve and righteous action
A chant in thrumming lows
And piercing strings ascension

When we meet
You will see
I will destroy everything of beauty
When I cast a crown and rattle dice
At the king of the lonely's throne
You'll hear me trampling back
You'll hear me coming home

The sand comes up to our chests
Like the tide
And reduces our skins to the bones
Which it polishes to a sheen
Our hip bones knock
Ribs interlock
In the rising sand
Our bones are clean

Syn.

A drop sends
Shockwaves
Down my spine
And I wrap myself
In strings
Funny that their noise
Is the same as their shape
Cleaved in wires
Biting my skin
An ecstatic cage of violins
She sings the air to madness
Madness slips into my ear
I shiver in awe of what I hear

Honeytrap.

I wonder if the towers of air
(The skyscrapers and high-rises)
Imagined by a hopeful youth
Dimly lit
Mysterious
Held the promises they claimed

Or was that steel construction
I gravitated to
Some kind of pitcher plant

It took me so long to realise
That the sweetness that I fell into
Was burning me the same

A forest of pitcher plants
You know what that means

Mortocracy.

A lifeless guardsman
A construct security
An empty suit of arms
Dragging the disgusting mass of flesh
And blood, breathing, inhaling
Disturbing the stillness of the tomb that is
The throne room

And on the plain chair
The makeshift throne
His majesty, the lich
Ruling long into death

Dead muscles held aloft by some
Thaumaturgic act
And skin shrunk to see the outlines of the bones
A shoulder stiffens
Reaches out
And leather skin unfolds and rattles
Indicating the catacombs

Without words
The sentence is carried
And the live prisoner is taken
To join the royalty

Green.

My hand is splayed on polished wood
And it looks not like my own
The light from my eyes to my brain
Takes a newer route this time
Through a pre-nascent herpetology
Darwin nudges me
Into another clade completely
I could be anything
If I'm not careful
My hand will spread out further and further
And further until my skin is scales
And my eyes are many
And legs can kick a whole in the wall
This same blood I feel
Can be found anywhere
In so many things
More wondrous than I

But they are not I
And I am not some kind of
Lizard

The Chordate Monstrous.

The most nascent edge
That juts into sound-space
And mind-space and whole
Elongates
Lengthens
Stretches
Until the rope of the world
The chordate monstrous
Ties itself in knots
Its spine a pretty conglomerate of
Blank bones
And unwritten bombs
And vertebrae breaching and reverberating
Backwards
Backwards and then
And the people of last century with their
Token shields, fair-weather faces
Scream in delight and horror and lust
A spiny impudent wretch in the air
Leeching the colour from the world
Only those already gone will know what we did

Drink The Water.

I am

Rusty rocks and twang
Corrugate
And red dust in sheets on the
Small lonesome
Town
Pale of the water
From the well
From the ground
Leatherback churchgoers
Leatherhand
Glass eyes
Lonesome crow
Cawing crow
Everyone fights
Everyone dies

I undertake a great task

He Who Gives and He Who Took.

The sounds giggle from your stomach, don't they? They sing in the gurglings of your last meal, fresh, warm, three-fold and heady. Every welling up of bile and fluid and scarlet humour forming a filmy bubble in your fleshy brain, and bursting, releasing that terrible cadence of a name, that you love and hate and fear and don't know why: Malkav Malkav Malkav. He who gives and he who took, he who was eaten twice by his childer and he who knew. Knew something too great.
Don't ask me my name, please.

Twice. Two. Dos. Shhhhh. Numbers have power. You know that. Numbers mean things, names haven't meant a lot for a long time but numbers still are important even now even when you can't keep them in. Personally, I believe he had eight. Eight. 8. Sideways to infinity. He had eight, two died early, stupid, they were they were. Lots of cousins have died in stupidity, better to be gnawed than stupid with undying sight. Two, anyway, back to two. He was eaten twice, so why can I say it Malkav Malkav shouldn't it be gone? Is he still digesting the name I know? He eats them, you know. He eats the names we should be able to remember, the names of the places that grow in the back-alleys of the web and why can I say it if he ate it? One of us ate the names, one of us ate his name, and now we call him by the backformation of the family name we cling to when it should be the other way around. We came from him. He doesn't come from us. What was his name? That's a cobweb trail you'll go down and never come out of.

The first time we ate him it was more proper. Propriety. What a laugh.

It, he, it's the process of unifying. Literally. Look past the word you already know. Unify. Un-I-fy. Malkav is the process of the un-I-ing, of un-you-ing, of coalescing and viewing himself subjectively through his childer, himself, you, and removing the idea of separate minds. We're different to the outside, but you know we're all the same, I'm you. So shut up when you're talking and listen.

He gave to his brother and took and gave from and to his childer and took from his grandsire but it was too much wasn't it? And now we look like we're looking at more which we are. The hushed up corners of the world, the corners of the cornerless shape we un-live on.

Don't ask me my name, please.

.

I genuinely question my sanity and no one is allowed to belittle that just like no one can belittle any part of my mind even inadvertently. Don't belittle my emotions with petty wants.

The Reality Bust.

Down!
Down!
Down the ravine!
Out of the speaker and out of the screen!
Out of the blast radius
Fight, fight, we must
And crack up the ice for
The reality bust!

Ranting and riveting and raving
Get a clue!
No one can tell us our path isn't true
We fight for entropy
Because entropy is just
We don't have an appointment
It's the reality bust!

We tear down the mazes
Their false-found chaos lies
Dismembering matter
With our third and fourth eyes
From the cloud banks and mudflats and the bottom of the sea
A great whole is rent
In all reality!

The spit of high heaven
The spit of the gods
(Oh, I think that's us
Ha!
What are the odds?)
At order and logic
We tear in our lust
For the great truth
The mystery
The reality bust

Grotesque.

When people are happy and I can't seem to able to manage that I feel like my feelings are devalued, like it's not okay to feel like shit. Negative reinforcement doesn't help either.

On the piano stool
Foetal and twitching
Cutting up yellow hair
Singing the praises of children of the book
And extending what I call my fingers
Inelegant things
I could read all day
I could scream and bother
The others
I could hope that satisfaction will spring
Forth from achievement
Some days I even look forward to just that
It's not my duty to spread misery and scorn
But the latter I deal in handfuls
The former I'm expected to deal with myself
Melancholy
Is not acceptable or sightly

When my person isn't what's wanted
And my escape is unattainable
And they all refuse to be tainted
By simple humanity

Edit: And in lighter moments I look back and my own temporary happiness makes anything else seem irrelevant and invalid. But that's not the case, and it's so god damned stupid that just because people aren't feeling something they are unable to recognise its existence or importance.