Free Nightmares From a Lovecraftian Mind by Jordan Krall Page B

to
melt into my eyes, my nose into my mouth, my chin draining onto my chest, and I
am food for scorpions. The cacti pulse and they throb the name of my extinction in their secret codes of nature. Sand becomes brain
matter and galaxy sperm, some dark mold spores and puzzled faces writing in
books, writing in blood-stained languages. Only the father-scholars can
decipher the messages.
     
    III. In
unison the cats preach, filling me with dread. They tell me I am being held in
a psychic prison, a complete negation of the womb, a blackened abyss that
occasionally flickers with red faces, all disappointed. The cats shed their
teeth which fall into the shadows in the ocean, the shadows that have gone too
far as my memory strangles itself. I do not remember the name I was told to
remember. I do not remember the meaning. I do not remember the order of things.
I do not remember the name I was told to remember.
     
    IV. You
give flowers to the man. You barely have time to say your prayers, your
incantations, your homemade spells. You turn and walk
back through the narrow hallway until you reach the door, that door. You
do not knock. You cannot knock. I whisper in your ear, “You want to knock.” You
shake your head and I laugh for I know you better than you know yourself. I
whisper into your other ear, “The horns have sounded. Now is the time to
knock.” You knock. You give flowers to the man.
     
    V. Oh, he knows
very well what he did. He knows his transgressions, his unholy exploration into
the holographic structures of my baragouin . No
mirrors can withstand my agonized visage; no gong can sound my rage. Oh, he
knows very well the points of my dissection. He uses a map to find me. He uses
diagrams, ancient and stained with wine, to explore my depths. I hear his name
in the sounding of the wind, in the slamming of doors, in the meows of those
dooming cats, in the flicker of that candle. I hear his name in the voices of
the galaxies and it forms a sphere in me. I hear his name in the passing of the
keys. The mirrors are behind you, whispering passages from the book.
     
    VI. It
forms a ribcage enclosing my soft stuffing, worthless pieces of paper,
scribbles in extinct languages, art forms that haven’t been used in aeons . I am the caller of nothing, the musician who sits in
silence, and paints walls with empty hands. I am the builder with no tools, the
listener with no ears. It is something that I will reach. You are something I
will reach. Massive machines on the hills becoming extinct with celestial
fungi. Several songs and several spells attempt to recapture the name. Nothing
can recapture the name.
     
    VII. He
awakens from his dream with careless abandon, runs to the window, looks out
into the yard and sees no grass but only asphalt and bubbling tar in the spring
beyond the garden spheres. He puts his face to the glass and inhales the sharp
reflection, sunlight on the ocean’s death door, morning blooms black and hungry.
He calls to his other. He hears the name of his other. He smells the scent of
galaxy dust. He traces the name in his breath that blooms in black and hungry
bursts…
     
    VIII. There
are no horns calling us into some metaphysical battle. There are no gongs calling
us into a meditative state of coiled raptus . There
are no visions awaiting us in the whirlpools of the ocean, no sparks on the
backs of those nameless creatures who birthed my fears. There are no faces in
the mirrors of this ethereal wasteland, no fluorescent lights flickering codes
that seep into my brain and flushes out my primeval urges. There are no curses,
no blessings, no boons, no names other than his. There
are no bodies in the amber, no souls in the ice. There are no horns calling
us….
     
    IX . Fiery horses spit galaxies of chaos
and document all my despair in thick tomes hidden in walls of my
insignificance. We stack the books on shelves made of dark matter. I am forced
to eat putrid horseflesh. They force me to stare through their