on the South Bank shore
A little man is he, his clothes are russet hairs
The bowels of the earth keep tight hold of my feet
My feet are ghouls with necks like snakes to suck on blood
Mine eyes are knots of twine encrusted in the bole of strangest bush new sown
And here's my hand, I seek thy pleading hands that, stiff with effort, reach towards the zenith pale and wan ...
How twisted are his arms, his severed fingers bleed
Magician, thou art blind to all thy magic tomes
Thy claws, thou bird of night, in velvet gloves are dressed to scratch the sacred glyphs upon the dead man's breast.
So moans the little man, the dwarf half-buried, from the shadow of the hanged who swing from posts they bang
O hanged men, kick your heels against the posts for warmth ...
The mandrake rake now makes a mocking gesture, flares as bright as lighthouses
No comments:
Post a Comment