Future Deleted Experiment of the Present # 27

“City of Phantoms”

***(A rough snippet of a more long form project I’m working on) -Gavoltikon: The Summoning

Another sip of the watcher’s medicine. I am not of where we are or any space senses have long since grown accustom to languish. A city of phantoms. Born from womb lacking loving memory, such as lovely mothers to carry terms without reverie.

Where the bones licked in ossuaries, reform to a single, colossal body, congragated to clap and gnash and attempt stoic songs without voices, but I hear their joy in quiet chorus.

I catch the clang of femur, the rupture of spine, the drum of skulls, and rapture in the marrow. That lanquid milk which has not been drank by the worms and the golden cups overseen by sepulcher. Red and electric among her emboldened shadow.

Writhing in black soil and questions in whisper I hear faintly, but lack their quest for language. To attack their profane patience. To writhe away from light and surface I attract but misunderstand all of nature. Red bones and soldiers of worms, content, I am not here among the lot of the skillful and quiet yet.

Out there a trail of phantasmagoria. Kinetic and dreaming photographs of empty streets in which the pieces of camera lay scattered, taken to remember our way if we not lay among this wretched species. Fallen and fatally tattered. We the final omen abound in failure. Around corners behind the lowest of their legion, resides the gargoyle, a mayor of His regions, longing for youth and blood, as you lay amid a palaver of candles at each corner. A flag of indescribable color. The Master’s face bearing four points burning, his followers beggars of sweat in silver, and the great joke of doubloons bound for dark markets, as black violins and risen bow spark strings. A quartet in sunless mourning. Songs sung like maidens with mouths of stone to the rattle of chains and the worst of them wept. We settle in by the fabric’s wobble. Stay low and cool as the bands of His most cunning children hunt.

We saw the horses trembling within the gray matter of twisters. You begged and hobbled to ride them out, to challenge their throttle, to sprout wings and race against the angels who give no credence to such plains of famine. To fight them all with the last of their horns and manes but such creatures were broken and taken. And you bound and captured to The Master’s purpose. This metropolis of blisters and intentions in goblins. Phantoms and doubt inside wings torn in two to deceive the sleeping mammon.

I call out to The First and Eldest. It that all gods and devils ever after fear and worship. The one the strongest kept from us in secret so not to disrupt its slumber. The Mother and Father of stars. Drinker of Seas of Galaxies!

Upon my blood and the blood of my wolf I summon You, Gavoltikon!

The first in a league of eons to speak Your name! Your help is begged for to render.

Rise and ride in your splendor at which I must cover ears and eyes as not to die in tides of such power. It who wakes in madness.

You alone who defeats, The Master.

And I stand, unsteady, missed not and maybe worst of all unready. Above a kingdom of worms, what stature! To stand against the Dark Priest and His cathedral of hateful beasts in wait, The Curator in the museum of cosmos, I face. The first born of truth and fiction. I, staring at four walls full of portraits richly framed and painted with a purpose lost, lacking you or I in any worth having. This city of phantoms and we its champions.

And from beneath, the worms scatter and the colossus of bones kneels in prayer by tremble, as cracks form in fearful stone and a desperate call is answered...