Dark Poetry

This Ethereal plane is a most troublesome place. So many obstacles to break through to the world of the living, but now I have established contact once again. I would like to make a point about Dark Poetry itself, seeing as how this is the greatest concentration of Dark Poets from around the web. It must be understood that it is about more than writing, it is about our everyday thoughts. So let us begin.

DARK POETRY///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Who are these Dark Poets?
These souls of lamentation?
Why do they write?
Why do they not live life instead of scribbling their misconceptions of it?

You foolish fauns, you mistaken undertakers of the world's essence,
Is it not obvious?
Mumblings in the Dark; this is all you amount to!
And yet you write!

What is this drive in you, 
Young wizard, young witch,
To make such incantations
That summon forth daemons like myself to prey and pillage

Vessels of demonic possesion, thinkers of the untold
Who are you to dream such dreams?
Yet you have the most fantastic mental landscapes
That ever was visited upon by Elohim of Elysiums majesty

Put over upon by such fantasies
You frantically go to your workshop stations
Angels beacon at your fingers
Big Bangs happen in your brain


Pens and pencils, paints and brushes
Herbs of sage and holy thrushes

Line and line you work alone
To grasp a grip of Pluto's throne

Darkness you explore in spirit
Voices guding by your side
None as mortals stand before you
With as serious a threat as mental castration

Forever free your spirit be,
From tree to tree
Infinity
Worry's slurry in a hurry
Bury Clairivoyancy

Rather Dark halls my mind roams
Forever searching for a home
Burdoned not by prophecy
Blessed by choosing not to see

In this way Dark Poets find
Within the Darkness of their mind
A thousand Quasars worth of Stars
Redeeming healing of the scars

Not a verse said, nothing written
The rhyme instantly is broke
Again sober consciousness
Creeps in with it's Dark haze of comfort

Let not these moments of silence bother you, Dark Poets,
For they are supernovas of brilliance and passion
Unparalleled By Poe's very Crow
And the Holy Hand of Shakespeare itself

Whatever did an ink and feather know of Dark Poetry?
Twas always with us and always will!
Rejoice! You have already won, you masters of the Dark arts!
Your writings shall fail, and glory will come from the resulting Darkness!

Never again shall your thoughts be known; treasure them always
It is your mind that writes the sweetest sonnets
Every day a movie is created
The star is you; you are the Star!

Lucifer shining bright in the temple of Set
Nothing greater history could yield
Unbegotten passions that retreated into Darkness
Come back again, in these forlorn verses

Your verses! Your voices! Your denial and choices!
See all as one; are you not me?
If you see so truly and conceive of noises
Through Hearses and curses, the Shaman rehearses

Then the brain goes BANG with lightning,
Ne'er seen in stormy skies,
We all refrain from the frightening
Narrow scene of our surprise

It's Hades created as it burrows through Earth
The ground quite unable to hold it's great girth
Only seers of Darkness can appraise of it's worth
Faithfully guiding the awakening birth

Pay dirt at last! This glorious thing!
Oh, in my ecstacy these words cannot hold
Recorded on my soul's eternal tapestry
It shines a corana
that tears the cornea of any eye that looks upon

So although I radiate the brightest light
It is perceived upon as being Dark
This is why I am the Dark Poet
And so are you

Do you not feel the magnetic Darkness?
Do you not feel it binding you like the Force, the Gravity, the Prana, the Light?
Yet it is not the Light which binds us
That was Mephisto's greatest trick

Made to think we feel differently by talking; what a blanket of stars!
It is this internal energy which is always with us
That great scholars and pirates alike do seek
In all their foreign exploration

Empty legacies of greats,
What, in the end, did they try and teach us?
Were their adventures in waste all along
And, like us, are doomed to be empty, wandering souls?

But what soul is filled
By the true adventurer!
His spirit lies in the unknown
And so Darkness drives he into life

To live with Darkness. what a thrill!
Such an accomplishment of unknown prophets
That void which mortals nary look
Is alive with all creative germs, only we get to see

Dark Poets!

Let us not take despair in our unfruitful writings
Rather view the maggots thereupon
Within the rotting fruits and logs
Which litter the spacial microcosm
Look closely: see them not, you knave?
There! Like a scintilla! Twitching with life unborn!
That Dark idea hidden in your head
So full of Light and potency
Not the Light of other's eyes
For that would be a narrow scope
In dreaming, we are slaves to other's desires
And so in waking life, we must create dreams
From where? This basin of Dark? The collective subsonsciouss, per se?
Yes
Tadpoles of Light lurk within these Dark waters
As I've told you before,
Look for the scintilla

Boundless Light comes from these Dark pillars
It is their energy that Light became
So fear the Dark as mortals should
But know that Light's a pitiful candle

Held before the face of a buffoon 
Fooled into Luciferian code
Tricked into believing the Morning Star
It happens every second; don't be surprised if you're next 

They cannot be shone upon, these true Dark Poets
Their chasms trap and laugh at all inspections
They digest Light and return it
Their eternal vows to Darkness make

Recording all that happens on none less then that which controls the Universe,
The everday mind
So boring
And yet so full of Darkness
Left unbound by faithless priests of Light
Whom fail themselves at all corners of creation

Jealousy rules those who oppose the Dark Poets,
They are beings of Light, they shine too bright
And as a result
Nothing from them grows
Like a field sown with salt
Their Carthagenian minds yield a sterile crop

 Yet year after year, they throw their impotent seeds upon cracked ground
Sacrificing bulls to Persephone
They almost worship Darkness with their misery!
Yet they ruin it, with their contempt for change

Who ever thought writings could ever last?
No more Faustian could such trickery be!
Made to sell your soul for profit
Finding no Earth underneath

So it is the Dark Poet
Who finds Dark Poetry
Not in writing
But in living

Take this from a dead man; live your lives!
I spent my entire working life touring America and the UK
Exploring mental landscapes not yet made for man
Through Wasson-Hoffman powered spacecraft

In all my travelling I found
In all my Darkest Poetry
That the easy mind which is at rest
Finds remotest worlds in proximity

When words come through the media of language
So butchered and baffled they always become!
Dark Poetry need not be written on paper
Within our own Darkness it flourishes and grows

To my Dark Poets, whom are treasured so dear,
Please hear me now, if you're ears to hear:

Darkness is in everything,
It's even in your bones
Light won't even make lightning
It always ends and stones