Scene 1, The Perils of Effulgent Sparkles
So much depends upon
And by the deadline,
glow away, o light bulbs,
as you traverse
across the perils.
Scene 2, Passing By
the nameless men
like wandering wraiths
are passing by
in the past,
they saw a spectacle
of a burning bronco
bolting in a ball
of fright’s fervor.
Scene 3, Heathcliff’s Cackle
On the terrace,
in the cerulean of heights,
on windy heights,
a deceased man perches
more replete with breath
& cackles –
with dolour from Heathcliff,
murky as the Medusa weed.
the torment with him
from that hamlet,
& heaved it
onto our domicile
on our abode
like an anvil,
an avalanche of anguished
suffering from Heathcliff
Scene 4, The Landlord’s Toll
The towering tally
of bills, receipts,
the price of
and the softness
The landlord, a colossal couscous
for my half-year’s hostage,
to stir his own stuttering
breath and shake
the very foundation.
Scene 5, Faustian Furnace
(The landlord, this titan of titans, whose girth rivaled that of an egomaniacal mountain of couscous, had the gall to demand a king’s ransom, the staggering sum of half a year’s rent, for a Faustian bargain.)
Will I blast them to bits,
these deaf and dumb daughters
with maladies of the mind,
and their sugar-stricken matriarchs?
When I granted them a space
with flaring fixtures,
amidst the scurrying of vermin
within the laundry machine,
and the dormant,
seething pot of stew,
I christened the furnace,
its warmth, oh how well
it caressed my flesh.
Scene 6, The Parasitic Bargain
(And he declares: “I will possess Medea, rip out her heart, and feast on it with the same fervor I devour their hopes and dreams. From the depths of Hades, with a thousand eyes, I will shatter their illusions and leave them gasping for air.)
In donating them
it may be
and it must
of coming up short
fills me with fright.
A parasite feasts
on their life force
and remnants of the lost.
Shall my hands
Scene 7, The Watchful Eyes
“And they’re watching
for any who
spit out crimson,
if any heave
like a thief’s mongrel
the rugged terrain
to and fro
the wilderness swarming.”
Scene 8, The Landlord’s Curse
“The rapt landlord shimmers, bathed in a radiant gleam,
Haunting the scaffolds like a somnambulist, swaying to and fro.
‘Tis like a spin upon a witch’s wheel, an accursed, unblessed doom!
What purpose is there to this? What treasures to contemplate?
Better to live humbly, to seek penance and await the end,
Than to spawn horrors in frenzy, and rent out the heavens, a trusted guest.
Is this our life’s design? To bear dark curses inwit,
And howl at witching spheres, like madmen trapped and confined?”
Scene 9, Witching Whispers
Oh, the madness of it all!
The clanging curses that resound,
Echoing through the halls,
Like the thrumming of a man-made knoll.
The gravity of it all,
An anchor engulfing me,
As I writhe in agony,
Ensnared in witches’ whims and drown.
But yet I sway to the rhythm,
Of their muted sound,
My essence held hostage,
In their spell of arcane mystic.
And so, I must break free,
From this spectral grip’s hold,
To find a new path,
One that befits my flesh’s worth,
A Wiccan ball in my attic, so bold.
Scene 10, The Inn of Drunken Revelries and Witchly Visions
Ah, there’s an inn! Yes, there
Drunkards come and go all night,
With brandy to pour and share.
VOICES OF THE WITCH GUILD:
“Landlord! Where are you? Landlord!”
“Here I am! I’m here!”
They circle ’round him in the half-light,
Of an earthly passage,
And see visions of apparitions,
Like white birds in a bruise, at play.
(The landlord fights frantically,
With his blurred, indistinct imaginings,
In a drunken chaos, obscured by fog,
And by gleams.)
Scene 11, Summoning the Spirits of Sickness and Death
Come forth, oh spirits of sickness and death,
With eyes fixed upon those who cough blood,
Whispering your schemes for the panting and wheezing,
Like the poacher’s cur on the rugged ascent.
Up and down the wuthering heights you roam,
Over landscapes teeming with crawling bugs,
As the mountain of bills, invoices, and receipts,
Grows higher with each passing day.
The cost of shelter, power, and the softness of necessities,
Piles up like the colossus of couscous and ego,
Demanding half a year’s ransom,
For the privilege of living,
In a world where the breath of a rot is a terminal phase.
But fear not, for there is beauty in the struggle,
In the moans of rats and the hibernating vessels,
As we make our way through this life’s furnace,
Bearing fruit from the waste we leave behind.
Scene 12, The Vengeful Figure in the Shadows
In his wake, a procession of fawning sycophants,
Their fingers clutching their groins and wallets,
Their mouths drooling with the desperate hunger of supplicants.
The Commander Starfleet strides ahead,
His presence a black hole of charisma,
That sucks the very life out of those who cross his path.
And they have their eyes,
On anyone who is coughing crimson,
And they’re already whispering,
If anyone is panting,
Like a poacher’s pup,
Climbing the wuthering heights,
Up and down the landscapes lush with locusts.
(Murderbreath permeates the city,
A suffocating fog that chokes the soul.
His corseted figure, tragic in its tightness,
Swells with power as he unleashes a terminal phase,
Of destruction upon the world.
The stench of collapsing alcoholic lungs,
Follows him like a faithful hound,
A reminder of the rot that festers within).
Suddenly, a lone figure steps out from the shadows, his face hidden behind a hooded cloak. He watches as the Commander Starfleet and his entourage pass by, their arrogance and greed palpable. The figure reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small vial, filled with a viscous, black liquid. He whispers a prayer and hurls the vial at the group.
The vial shatters against the ground, and the black liquid spreads quickly, enveloping the feet of the Commander Starfleet and his followers. They scream in terror as the liquid crawls up their legs, coating their bodies in a thick, oily sheen. The figure disappears back into the shadows as the group writhes and convulses on the ground.
As the liquid begins to dissipate, the group is left coated in a thin layer of ash. They gasp for air, their eyes wide with fear and confusion. The Commander Starfleet stumbles to his feet, his once-imposing figure reduced to a trembling, pathetic mess. The sycophants scatter, desperate to distance themselves from the Commander and his now-ruined reputation.
The lone figure watches from a safe distance, his work complete. He disappears into the night, leaving behind a city in chaos and a commander who will never again be able to assert his dominance over those around him.
Scene 13, The Haunting of Room X
Behold! My forefinger poised,
To quell the electric’s buzz,
And plunge the cosmos into darkness.
Ha-ha-ha, hear it, on a whim.
May bulbs die, forever black,
Til’ my dying breath departs,
From my warm ancestral hearth,
Wherein I commune with ghosts of hearts.
The tenant stork’s army quakes,
By the force of my beckoning hand,
As the door handles quiver and contort,
Beneath my grasp in spasms of dread and fright.
Amidst the symphony of scurrying rats and the inferno of burning circuits,
As the cosmos convulses in an endless tumult of agony in flames and chaos,
as bulbs implode. And in one small space, a casserole filled to the brim,
with no oven or stove, two snoring figures with empty pockets,
A hundred euros, fleeting as the wind, a vain treasure in the eyes of eternity.
A room haunted by the ghost of a man, his face a map of ash and decay,
his soul consumed by the fire of vice. A body once alive, now a mere husk,
A mere vessel of mortal clay, a forgotten echo of the past