Helix of Usurpers

Shuttering and quaking like an old shack in a strong wind, rapidly
and with every twisted bit of scraping and slamming it can stand beneath.
It is a thing whose glance can sharpen every sense. It sends children
stuttering and shaking back to unbelieving parents. Back in the room it waits for them.
It has been following me. It is just behind me now. Masked between every sound.
Not now. Don't turn around.
Not all that can take form is subject to a shape. It is streaking, waiting to strike,
like lines, red and black against a stark pale. Mental rape,
taking advantage of imagination. There is no comfort in the mind.
It will whisper deep into it things that you would never think.
Sweetness quietly unfolding, backward will unwind,
unbound, like the voices of a tape rewound.
There is no warmth or light. There is nothing you can hide behind.
It knows every corner. It lives in the shadows.
Better to be running restless than to be asleep with them again
as blood is stroked into my thoughts.
They are tormenting, setting up false hope like straw men- to fail, to keep seeping,
dripping, like black pearl. Not a cloud at all. Utter darkness, vermin vail.
A strength beyond it's fragile frame,
itself only thin and frail.
Thus they work apart the sinews of my flesh, little little teeth of time.
Every pain enters awareness with alarming unreal sharpness.
Any man under this stress would just as easy become brittle.
Beneath my eyes, behind them, waits a vivid vision of the stale
and hollow lives we've carved out, loving things and using people.
If I let my eyes rest too long
I will see the memories reinacted. I can hear the song..
banshee fails explanation for this darkly as a halo does for Holy.
There is pathos in their wail. This is wretching.
Like wrists twisted, breaking skin, looking down on fatal wounds.
Unable to do anything but watch with fingers twitching. Half the howling is your own
and the other, best unknown.
Promises of egos stroked, made by hearts as cold as stone.
Like angels without shining, with dead and broken wings. Gray and morose.
Like grinding, pricking thorns that go too deep for the reliever- like a razor
to a cutter with a will of it's own. Finds it's way from skin to blood, blood to bone
and plunging still firm within a patronizing grip, uncontrolled, showing
that which will reveal the most mortal realizations.
Like the worst of all offensively spoken accusations, the most unseemly
are the ones you know yourself are true. Those thoughts and those actions
are their strength, their way through. We let them in. I almost laugh.
I'm not saying we can keep them out. Best efforts are bad stitches,
very gently ripping, giving way to scars and innards, and the snakes,
the monsters as they represent themselves, the half burned witches,
serpent shades that fade in all but the corner of the eye.
Fear is all that's needed to make you understand that there is far worse.
Of all that you could dream or see, there is worse, and this justly.
No one will rescue you from that which we deserve. They're coming.
That is the double fear of nightmares, finding that even waking out there knowing
there is still truly such things: cutting, raping, bleeding, beating, dying.
All are true. All the monsters real and walking.
Sitting mockingly remaining there enthroned, unusurped. The usurpers of your sovereignty.
They ravage, and those who in ignorance wish to portray them should die.
When they say to their friends this is "cool", they should die. They have no idea.
It has bested them inside. They are dead. This is clear. You can see it in their eyes.
There is no purpose there, only pleasures and their obstacles, which they destroy-
they ravage. Their joy at the expense of others, so it is clear who they have joined.
When they smile. When they say "Just a little farther down the alley."
When they tempt you with the same nature that entangles you in slavery to it daily.
They pretend to be the liberated, these slaves of desire. As for myself, I've seen it.
I'll not be fooled again so easily. I flee. I know it when they're creeping up on me.
I sleep carrying more memories back to them, at which they grin
like a warmonger soldier at foreign children and his ammunition.
Like a surgeon's scalpel at the gurney coming in,
an operation in unconsciousness beneath skin, papercut thin.
Like an experiment of Auschwitz, the most intelligent of sins.
Abominations. Mutations. Sad alterations having souls of contorted sorts.
Otherwise unrecognizable beneath fluid tubes and metal bars.
They have shown these things to me- on the floor there was a drain,
on my arm, there was a number and a star. A naked stranger whispered to me
that the remnant should remain, but I didn't know their meaning.
In the room across the way, there was a furnace ablaze with bodies, corpses, ashes everywhere.
The smell was so strong it was taste.
Their placid faces gazed fixedly upon their captors,
the blaze an accurate foreshadowing backdrop for their bruised blue husks of bodies.
It raked. It grated. It turned the heated wheels which cranked, powering an industry
which chose it's murderers by rank, and it's the same today.
This is what we have embraced, the same depravity. The same lies.
The kind that uses someone else's fall to masturbate. We get off on it,
at the innocent's expense. Like searching for an orifice where we can put our fist.
What do we have coming? How much can we get? We seek out only pleasures
and destroy our obstacles, even when they're other people.
What we are is clear, though it may be denied in fear.
We do not feel. We won't. We fear nothing now, and so we cling and claim to love
the horrors seeing us this far. "Keep us here", we pray to them,
"where you're the worst of what is real. And I shall be faithful to you.
Protect me. Until I have nothing left to steal."
Such is the belief in Authority as something that is serving me.
So soon we forget pain's stark revelation- there is always worse,
always more that we can lose, always longer we can burn.
We are cursed. It follows us. It plagues us with ourselves,
like the dead brother of conjoined twins.
Wherever we go grins back the contorted face, the grotesque decaying
grinning face. Our sins and their consequences.
Can no one save us from this body of death?
Can no one take this curse, this blood, put these nightmares to rest?
Or are the flames forever? As we've rejected true love,
have we become what Love detests?