Let’s go on a day trip.
To the country?’
No, not exactly. We just nip to the place
where the very walls vibrate their way
from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian
and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells
and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell.
The Beast lurks in every corner,
the carpet waxed while the moon is on the wane.
It’s hard to feel relaxed
when the Eye that Sees All is upon you
in the name of the infernal Pantheon,
who shall remain shameless
but who we all know and love
as they watch from above
the chess-ridden hall of nameless pawns
who were shot down in flames.
And the Book of the Dead teeters
on the brink of a shelf-ful of dust,’
while Madam Blavatsky, screwed to the wall,
struggles to think.
Tales of alchemical lust in the back rooms linger ….
Here lies deceit – and exploded hearts,
so often …
It’s not very hard in a place such as this,
to enter the twilight,
cross the veil into the Abyss,
beyond the pale
where devils kiss.
Copyright Morgan MacInnes (c) 2000