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by J. D. Reed


Buried in solvent pitch


The warm flood sounds

In gargantuan chambers

The pulse swallowed by the still black

The tremor sunk,


The great eye slumbers

The lid is fastened with a barnacled lock

And hides the golden malice

Of an ancient gaze

Too potent to be returned,

Thoughts only guessed at,

It waits,

Things titter to and fro


As the god-blood moves

Through deep channels

And shudders at the tip

Of a languid limb,


The thudding mantra

Keeps the pace of the tide

It is patient for its master’s call,

Her waters daily disturbed

By arrogance, hubris,

A subtle shift

It feels its size


And Then

A bristle of anticipation

A spark in the Stem

An arrythmia

Aggravates the calm metronomic abyss

A twitch

A crack

The form is flexed

Splits the cap

Of a burning world,

Angry steam disrupts

The cold liquor

The flicker of an untold mind


The Brine erupts

With titanic force


The coursing veins grow hot

A deafening arrest

Preparing for the death

That lives within

Those limbs

That orbit nations

That could reverse creation

With a cursory


A hesitation,

The dilation is arrested,

The summons has not come,

Just a rumour

Of the doom,

The magma in the vessels cools

The hum of apprehension


The drum resumes

Its stable


Not yet, but when the call is answered

land and sky will rupture at the brink

collide into the mirk, Indistinct

from the gloom

and the thud

and the drum,



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