The Moon, Monsters, and Emotional Mayhem

Depression has seeped itself into the marrow of my bones once again.  I shut my bedroom door against the world, especially this week.  Especially being a reeling, grieving queer person this week.

On my dead end street, I shut my bedroom door against the world, and draw the curtains against the light.  I wrap myself in a blanket mailed to me by a long-gone lover in the hopes that it would help with my sleeplessness and I wonder:

“How long will this time last?”

Depression is a monster.  I am depression.  I am a monster.

Late at night, driving home, I park my truck on my street.  I stand quietly in the yellow glow of the streetlight for a moment before walking into the house.  Our street dead ends into the woods, and I hear coyotes howling in the distance.  Hope the dog circles around the edges of the light, sniffing at the air.  I can tell she’s spooked.

I’m spooked too, but it’s not the coyotes.  It’s the passing hours.  Its’ the passing days.  It’s the passing years.  They all add up to the same mounting sense of panic and isolation that set my skin crawling.

The streetlights flicker.  Hope growls softly at the tree line.  I almost wish I smoked cigarettes, or drank alcohol.  At least I’d have something to do with my hands, or something to meet the darkness with.  Instead we turn towards the house.  Hope runs ahead of me and beats me to the door.  We walk inside and go into our room.  She settles herself at her place on my bed, and I mine.  I open the window, and outside I can still hear the coyotes, growing distant.

Tonight I love them for howling at the moon to keep me company.

I really don’t want them to eat my housemates’ cats.

I ended the night reading old journal entries.  This is never a pleasant way to spend the small hours of the night.  You realize how similar you are to the person you were at 19, at 21, at 25, at 30.  Maybe we never really change.  We just grow older, and more embittered as the lines wear into our face and the years pass by in a flash.

I’ve always talked about depression.  I’ve always talked about feeling like an alien.  I have always talked about isolation.  These themes have defined my life.  It wasn’t just a passing teenage phase.  It wasn’t just a passing early adulthood adjusting phase.  I don’t think my experience is unique by any means, but it’s the experience I know the most intimately.

A breeze flutters through my window.  Hope snores.  I turn a dried and cracking page from a fifteen year old journal.

June 27th, 2001

I slept in the back of my car in Lauren’s apartment complex last night.  I arrived too late to knock on the door and ask to sleep on the couch.  I think I pulled up around one or two and fell asleep.  Lauren knocked on my window to wake me up around seven when she left for work.  She handed me a spare key, and told me I could go inside and brush my teeth and shave if I wanted. 

I probably looked like hell. 

I haven’t wanted to sleep at J’s house.  I can’t bring myself to, knowing what her next door neighbor did.  He tried to say hey to me and ask how my drive from Minneapolis was.  I ignored him.  Are you fucking kidding?  I have some of my things stored in the garage, but that’s it. 

J says I’m too angry.  She says sometimes these things just happen.  The phrase “quiet atrocity” reverberates in my head over and over.  Fuck this.  If this is how adults live and treat each other, I want to stay a fucking kid forever. 

We got in a fight that led to me sleeping in Lauren’s parking lot.  I cried more than I’ve maybe ever cried in my life.  All that helpless, impotent rage came pouring out of my eyes and my tiny body in racking sobs.  We agreed to go to therapy, but I don’t know if it will help.  I know I am doing literally every wrong thing here, but I also don’t know where to turn for advice. 

I don’t sleep enough at night.  I drive around looking for quiet places that will set my mind at ease.  I listen to the same four or five tapes on my tape player for hours. 

Catharsis.  Gehenna.  His Hero Is Gone.  Tragedy.  Born Against.  From Ashes rise. 

I dig through suburban dumpsters while The Rebel Sound of Shit And Failure grinds away in my tape player.  I sped through the intersection of 14th Avenue and Ogden Street half hoping a car would slam into me and end it all while The War of the Sons Of Light and Suns Of Darkness vomited all of it’s hatred and bile out of my speakers.  Driving north on Wadsworth Boulevard I pull over to cry and punch my windshield until it cracks while Tragedy howl about the Tension awaiting imminent collapse. 

The words have never rang truer than now.  I once told J that I needed music that sounded as ugly as I felt on the inside every single day, and this was it. 

Earlier today I recalled the story of how a friend and I met to her with such detail that she was kind of amazed.

“Maybe it would help you if you had partial amnesia.  I can’t imagine what remembering all these tiny details might do to a person.  I was horrified.  I actually got kind of upset and wanted her to apologize.  I’m so attached to memory, and the details that I feel things just as deeply a decade later as I did when the event occurred.

Case in point:  Reading the above journal entry.  I remember the sinking hatred that filled my body when I encountered J’s assaulter.  I remember the sinking, helpless wrath that filled my being almost every single day that summer.  I remember exactly how it all felt.  I remember.  I’d like to say that I’ve moved on, but recalling that helpless anger with ease, maybe it’s not the case.

Still, it’s my brain.  I’ll take it’s functions as they are, thank very goddamn much.

Howl.  Crackle.  The early summer breeze comes in through the window again.  It is nearing two AM.  I’m glad our street dead ends and is silent except for the chorus of nocturnal life the woods provide.

April 6th, 2005

It’s been almost two months since the accident.  I can walk upright with a cane now.  The last two months have been so hard.    The apartment I lived in when the car hit me was cramped and infested with roaches.  My housemate was an unsupportive fuckass, so I moved here. 

Molly lives in a one bedroom apartment on 2nd and Acoma.  I live in the living room.  She is the only one on the lease.  The rental agency doesn’t know I’m here.  If they every check, we will have to hide most of my stuff somewhere, or at least make it look less like I live in the living room. 

I got drunk by myself a few nights ago on a bottle of plastic whiskey from the liquor store a few blocks away on South Broadway.  I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling while Molly’s copy Lucero’s Tennessee spun on the turntable.  Call me elitist, but the record just sounds right on vinyl.  I get it.  It’s punks playing country music, or hipsters, or whatever.  These ridiculous sad bastard songs sound like they are supposed to with the accompanying crackles and pops that come with vinyl. 

I kept thinking about a line I read in a Derrick Jensen book, about how humans inherently hating themselves and each other.  With liquor swimming around in my belly and my head spinning, I had to admit he was right. 

If we didn’t hate ourselves we wouldn’t commit atrocity after atrocity upon one another.  We wouldn’t poison the planet.  We wouldn’t poison our bodies, or murder, or rape.  Or fucking commit genocide.  We wouldn’t commodify and consume everything within reach if we weren’t full of a self-hating death urge. 

We wouldn’t have to numb ourselves to the horrors we commit, or uphold, or ignore, with three dollar plastic bottles of whiskey. 

I just admit it.  I drink because I hate myself.  I said that out loud at a party at Villa Kula last summer when someone asked me what made me want to start drinking.  The room fell awkwardly silent. 

 When I was straight edge, I used to say that I never wanted to numb myself to the experience of the living no matter how difficult or horrific it was.  Now I just want numbness.  I hate the person I am becoming.  I hate it when I have days where this city just looks like a rotting corpse, and it’s inhabitants are just maggots crawling and gnawing through the flesh. 

My eyes are all fucked up and bitter.  I’m only 24.  Alcohol alleviates that bitterness for a while.  Sometimes I pray that alcohol poisoning will take me in my sleep. 

Last night was largely a blur.  I definitely remember Molly and I meeting up with an old high school friend at a queer bar just north of Colfax.  I’m still walking with a cane, but felt well enough to walk around.  Before we left the apartment, Molly and I planned our “Night of Mayhem”.  If I was well enough to walk (albeit with a cane) maybe I’d be well enough to run too. 

We filled our bags with spray paint, bricks, a crowbar, and one bottle of whiskey each.  Kentucky Gentlemen, of course.  This is the only gentlemen either one of us trust.  I can’t bike yet, so I bussed it up to East Colfax.  The Zero, then the fifteen.  I was only mildly self-conscious of the rattling spray paint can knocking against the whiskey bottle in my bag. 

We didn’t know what we were going to break, or spray paint, but it was going to be awesome. 

We hung out at the gay bar with my high school buddy, and watched the drag show.  My high school friend bought Molly and I two shots each.  I’m definitely feeling it by the time Molly and I get up to leave and meet our other friends, and respective lovers at the 404 Lounge on South Broadway, one maybe three blocks from our apartment.  L. and I have already been having a strained conversation through text message, and I’m not looking forward to meeting up with them.      Molly and C. had been broken up for a week or so, but were in that awkward ex-lover phase where the cord wasn’t quite cut.  It had been a rough winter, for all of us. 

“You know, you could jump on the bus now, or we could walk down Colfax and drink some of this whiskey.  It’s such a nice night.” 

She was right.  No reason to hasten what was likely going to be an awkward night at the bar.  We made our way, stumbling and giddy down East Colfax, passing back and forth the bottle of Kentucky Gentlemen. 

“You know what fucking song I love?”

“What song?”

“Kiss the goddamn bottle!”

“Goddamn.  Me too.  We should sing it.  Mattie Canino sang it for me at a house show last year when I started drinking.”

We went on like that; west on Colfax towards Broadway, where I’d catch the Zero, stumbling and singing.  We sang it so, so badly.  A man walking on the south side of Colfax even stopped to watch and laugh at us. 

“It gets loneliest at night.
Down at the liquor store.
Beneath the neon sky.
Our moonlight.
Six A.M., the floor comes alive with lice.
The pan’s dried up so tight.
With hardened beans.
We’re hungry.
So I lean on you sometimes.
Just to see you’re still there.
Your feet can’t take the weight of one.
Much less two.
We hit concrete.

How were we born into this mess?
I know I painted you a prettier picture, baby.
But we were run out on a rail.
Fell from the wagon to the night train.

I kissed the bottle.
I should’ve been kissing you.
You wake up to an empty night.
With tears for two.

Cigarettes they fill the gaps.
In our empty days.
In our broken teeth.
We’re jonesing.
Say mister, can you spare a dime?
Some change could make a change.
Could buy some time.
Some freedom.
Or an ear to hear my story.
It’s all I’ve got. My fiction
beats the hell out of my truth.
A palm upturned burnt blue.
Don’t call it sunburn.

You’ve been shaking on the job.
Just one drink ahead of your past.
There’s a white light coming up.
You draw the blinds hoping it’ll pass.

I kissed the bottle.
I should’ve been kissing you.
You wake up to an empty night.
With tears for two.

I kissed the bottle.
I should’ve been kissing you.
You wake up to an empty night.
With tears for two.

I kissed the bottle.
I should’ve been kissing you.
You wake up to an empty night.
With tears for two.”

We came to the corner of Colfax and Broadway where I was to catch the Zero, and where Molly would jump on her bike and bike the eleven blocks south to the 404.  Before my bus came, Molly insisted that we jump over the chains keeping people off the Pioneer Monument and drink a toast. 

“Everything we know is coming to pieces!  Our lives!  Our city!  Our world!  Civilization itself!  Through it all our friendship, and maybe this stupid statue will endure!” 

Molly was grinning and gesticulating wildly with the bottle of whiskey.  A trained opera singer by profession; even with the slurring, her voice carried mightily.  We both pulled swigs of liquor out of the bottle, emptying it into our bellies.  Molly took the bottle and smashed it at the foot of the statue. 

Somehow, nobody called the cops on us.  My bus came.  Molly got on her bike.  Ten minutes later we were at the 404.  Molly was already fighting with C.  when I arrived.  L. became irate with me when I didn’t say hello to her as soon as I walked into the bar.  Her irritation only grew when she realized how drunk I was. 

The details are lost to me in a whiskey blur now, even a day later.  I think that cute boy who flirted with L sometimes came into the bar.  Somehow I tried to walk home by myself.  It was only three blocks.  L. followed me outside to ask if I was okay to get home on my own. 

“Fuck you!  I’m fine!  Let me go!” I slurred. 

The hurt was right there in her face.  I was now that guy.  The guy who gets wasted and jealous and acts like a hurting piece of shit.  Seven words that I couldn’t take back.  It went downhill from there. 

We argued for a minute in front of the 404.  Then walked back to Molly and I’s apartment.  We sat on the porch, crying quietly.  We proclaimed how dearly we loved one another, but it just wouldn’t work.   

It’s a blur.  I definitely remember crying and saying:  “I’m in love with you because you’re so sensitive.  I love you because you cry reading the newspaper!”  I remember asking her what she was feeling, and she replied only with “despair.”.  She asked if she could come in to fuck one more time before we broke up for good.  I said no.  My room was too messy and I was embarrassed to have her in it. 

We kissed goodbye and she walked home.  We’ve broken up before.  I wonder if it will stick this time?

I passed out in Molly’s bed, periodically waking up to leave her a series of increasingly incoherent voicemails.  She played them for me today, and they’re hilarious.  I can’t even tell what I’m saying in the last one.  “Something something something heartbreak”

Molly and C. got in a huge fight.  It’s definitely over for them too.  Molly came home crying and passed out next to me in her bed.  We laughed at our messenger bags full of alcohol, spray paint and bricks the next morning.  Who were we kidding?  We didn’t break anything but ourselves.  Our “Night of Mayhem” quickly devolved into a night of emotional mayhem.  Now we’re left to pick up the pieces.  Again. 

I don’t drink now.  I don’t even really go out to bars.  Lately I don’t even really go out.  In my solitude, I could almost miss the drama and disasters of youth.  Almost.  I look back tonight not with a sense of loss, or wasted days, but a sense of bewilderment of what any of it means.

Some nights I can see it clearly.  Tonight isn’t one of them.  There are good days and bad days.  I’m out here alone on a dead end street, save for the coyotes howling, and save for Hope the Dog, of course.  I’m not sure if I’d have it any other way, but I don’t know.  Pouring these words onto the page makes the loathing dissipate just enough.  It brings just enough light to the darkness.  That’s it.  That’s kind of all I’ve got to go on.

We’ve been picking up the pieces for as long as we can remember.  I don’t really know how to bring this piece to a close.  It feels more like a weird archival journal entry, a look back at survival strategies to see what worked and what didn’t work.  I guess it comes back to the fact that at thirty-five years old, surviving gets exhausting.  I want to thrive.


Self-Hate Boy. Denver, Summer 2001

When I was nineteen years old, I left Denver to live in Minneapolis for a year. It was a weird year, which I rarely talk about. I guess it has always felt like an uneventful time, in a very eventful life. I worked a shitty job at a bagel shop. I got fired from that, and then got a job as a delivery driver. I worked that job from ten at night until four or five in the morning three to four days a week.

The winter was cold, the city was unfamiliar, and punk was changing for me. My young relationship was tumultuous as well. That has always sort of summed up my time in Minnesota. It was the year I tried to be an adult. I mostly spent it alone, working, trying to hold my first serious relationship together or trying to write.

I have one very clear memory of walking across the 10th Avenue Bridge in winter. The wind was freezing, and the Mississippi rushed below me. I hadn’t returned phone calls from any of my old friends in weeks now. I came to the cold realization that my perception of the world was changing and I was only twenty. So many of the ideals and relationships I had once clung to so desperately now just seemed futile and cheap.

My heart felt like a lump of ice, and my illusions shattered. That whole winter, I felt as if something in my body was changing shape. I came to realize that saying goodbye to those kids now growing into boring adults, the ones who I had held fast to in my youth, was not as hard as I always thought it would be once the drifting apart began. The phone would ring and ring, and I never picked up.

Summer came and it was time to go home. A year in Minneapolis felt like enough, even though I was just beginning to feel adjusted. I made the drive to Denver in less than a day. I packed everything I owned in a tiny car, put my cats in a carrier together in the back seat, and drove without stopping until I was back home. My exhausted eyes are filled with resignation the whole way. This isn’t the life we chose, but it’s the life we got.

I came home to Denver that summer, in 2001. It was around the time phrases like “Screamo” and “Emo Violence” were being thrown around at shows all the time. Bands like Orchid and The Blood Brothers were constantly on tour, and stopped to play Double Entendre Records regularly. All the boys had silly spock haircuts that I thought were dumb, not that my unruly mop of black hair looked any better.

I would see this boy at shows sometimes, in the back room at Double Entendre, with his handsome face, and nice hair. Tall, and muscular, he was the kind boy I wished I could look like. I’ve always had a difficult time feeling at home in my awkward skin; even more so when I was twenty and emaciated through veganism, uncomfortable and alienated almost all the time.
The sweetheart and I were reeling from a sexual assault during time spent apart. Nobody ever taught us shit about how to deal with quiet atrocities like this. I fell into the dark and spent most of that summer doing my best to crawl out of my skin. I haunted shows spaces and libraries in my dirty black carhartts, way too big for my scrawny frame, hungry, exhausted and all alone.

I wandered around Denver, and even it’s surrounding suburbs seemingly forever, reacquainting myself with the city I called home. Sometimes I would go to the suburbs to sleep in my car. I didn’t have anywhere stable to live. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time I was facing it as an adult, and simultaneously resisting the hardening of my heart that came along with it as much as I could.

I would see this boy, and he was the type to take his shirt off at shows. It got hot in Denver that summer. He had the words “Self-Hate” tattooed in large letters on his chest. It was a sentiment I understood intimately. I knew this boy immediately even though this we never spoke a word.

Twenty years old and hopeful, yet always teetering on the edge of the abyss, seeing the world through eyes that are both new, and weary at the same time. I tell my friends that I want the words “born dead” tattooed on my knuckles. Try as I might, I cannot remember how to feel. I reach for warmth; for where my heart was, and I swear there is a hole in my chest.

Time passes, like molasses in winter snow, time passes like lighting in a summer storm; all at once. We grew too fast. I don’t have any clear memory of seeing self-hate boy again after a Soophie Nun Squad show in the back room of Double Entendre in August of 2001. He was there, dancing with the rest of the punks, dancing with his shirt off in the desert heat. He smiled, and his teeth shone in the dim lights. Sweat glistened on his “Self-Hate” tattoos.

My favorite memory of that night, was when the police responded to a noise complaint at Double Entendre. They crept in through the back door and into a scene of utter chaos. Anyone who remembers Soophie Nun Squad can attest to the kind of show they brought with them. The back room of Double Entendre was filled to the brim with dancing punks in every sort of costume. Paul, the owner was back there too. He was too busy dancing with everyone else, in nothing but a bathing suit and snorkel as his costume to even bother hanging at the register or watching his records. It didn’t even matter. Literally everyone in the shop was just in the back room dancing anyway. There wasn’t even anyone up front to steal money or records.

The cops did their best to assert themselves in the crowd and ask who the owner was. Paul replied with “I don’t know!” and kept dancing. The band kept playing. Punks kept throwing oversized foam rubber cinder blocks and cookies at each other. Nobody was drinking due to the strict no alcohol rule at Double Entendre, so there wasn’t even anyone to bust for underage drinking. The cops stood off to the side and watched for two songs or so, shrugged their shoulders, and left back the way they came.

At the end of the show we all congregated out front, smiling, sweating and steaming in the late night heat. Too full of energy, Molly, Kim, Lauren, Ona and I decided to walk back home. We walked all the way up to Thirteenth Avenue, made a right when we got there, and then a left up Corona Street. Our house was old, and smelled weird, but we loved it. I can’t remember what the rent was. Whatever it was, it’s probably three times that now.

Poor “self-hate” kid, poor all of us really; those of us who never learned to grow, whose lights burned out to early, or could maybe never burn brightly enough to lead our out of the dark. One of my favorite punk bands from that era once said from stage “We all ended up in this room for a reason.” And it’s true. It always has been.

I think of those of us who are still punk in our Thirties. I think about those of us who stick it out, year after year despite it’s origins as a subculture for alienated youth. I’ve said this a million times before. I’ll say it again. The world doesn’t really hold a place for us, it never did. I think about all us lonely kids from broken homes, from battered bodies, from nowhere at all. The best thing we ever got was a crowded room, some fucked up noise, and lacerated vocal chords; screaming and screaming to be heard beneath skyscraper skylines and small towns alike.

If punk taught me anything, it’s to make your own place in the world, claw it out, tooth and nail. There was never any choice, any going back. Not really. The music hit like a goddamn bomb, and your home. Or your home for a while a while at least. It’s not always going to be an easy thing, making that place for yourself, and what if the place you make for yourself in the world isn’t what you wanted, or you get there, and you realize it looks like everything you tried to escape?

I don’t know if life ever got easier for self-hate boy, or for any of the youth of yesterday with our ringing ears and fading tattoos. I know the daily struggle I feel just to get out of bed and face the day most mornings. We learn to adapt. We do our best to thrive. We move, and grow, and change.

I sometimes wonder where that boy, with his self-hate tattoo is. I never saw him again after that summer. I know a thing or two about wounds that run some deep, you feel like the only thing you can do is wear them. I hope he learned to love himself. I hope the same thing for all of us. I don’t know him. I never knew him, but I like him. I don’t know you, but I like you. I love your life, your story, because you have one. Please keep telling it.


Photo of the crowd at the show featured in this story pulled from a google image search.  Photographer unknown.  Paul Kane, the owner of Double Entendre records can be seen in the center of the photo.  I’m actually pretty sure I can see self hate-boy too, just to the back and left of Paul. 

About a Boy Two: The Hale and the Whole

About a boy Two: The Hale and the Whole

Tears trace your eyes
As we wind our way home
Down Valencia Street
We move in fits and starts
Like windswept leaves

Brittle smiles cautiously breaking
With the spring breeze
Inhale, exhale be grateful for these
Small moments when breath comes gently

You clear your throat and apologize
For all the horror you’ve told
Like my hearing you relive it
Would be too much for my heart to hold

It’s okay
My love
It’s okay

You do know how I have been sick with worry
That clumsy words could ever be enough
To bring our war-weary
And worn out nights to a close

It is a war, after all
You know, the one waged on our bodies
From the day we were born
Into our ill-fitting, misaligned skin

In the neon glowing darkness
Of a crumbling Oakland skyline
Your hands are scarred and shaking
As they gingerly enclose around mine
This fragile, fleeting moment in our lives

Is one inside of a thousand
Of all the tiny ways we heal
Breathe with me, please
Just keep breathing.

Inhale, exhale think about the breath
Pushing stale air out of your lungs
And bringing fresh oxygen to your cells
How even when you want to die
Your body is doing everything
To keep you alive

And you replicate, radiate, and are reborn
Like how they skin they stained
With heartless hands will shed one day
Even when scars remain
And you are beautiful in your scars

In your survival

I love every iota and atom of you
Battered, but not quite broken
Bloody and bruised

Knocked down in the goddamn dirt
But not dead yet
And I love you on the days
When the sunlight is just too much to face

Close your eyes
Take a deep breath
Sleep and heal
Rest well
In the endless grace
Of passing days

About a Boy Part One: The Hate and The Hollow

Trigger Warning:  Violence against Trans People.

I wrote this one for you, oh dearest tender babe
For when you rise
With your stained halo held high
With lines worn into your face and bitter eyes

For when you wake to greet another grey day
Right on the other side of a long and sleepless night
Your raspy voice on the telephone line

Has a tale to tell
About four hours spent in hell
And the hollow men

Who saw a faggot in the wrong bathroom
At the wrong time, took turns
And left you locked in
A utility closet to die when

Their hatred for you was spent
This is the kind of sin
That goes above and beyond

Some petty losing faith
In the inherent goodness
Of all the sons and daughters of man

It becomes one of the iron clad ways
That every atom in my tiny body
Swelling to fill with the purest hate

The kind of hate
That sets your days ablaze
And you forget how to pray

When you do remember
When you do remember
You don’t even know where to begin

“You can keep this world
With all it’s sin
Because this shit is
Not fit for living in.”

On bruised knees, let us pray (prey)
For the plague to end all plagues
Or beautiful, final war to take the last one’s place

Anything to give respite to your pain
Crashing waves rising to swallow cities
And leave silent ruins in their wake

Praying for a way to wipe you fucking maggots
Off of the battered face
Of our grey and dying earth

So that we may have a chance
To dance in the flames
Of the world of men burning down

To spit on humanity’s
Collective mass grave

broken radio

Broken radio
In an empty room
Echoing off cold walls
Small and out of tune
Down here,
Beneath the floorboards
Behind grey walls
Words like “No Future!”
Never, ever rang so true
Up the steps
Out of this house
And into the endless
Wasted, waning days
And the hearts we awaken
Just to break
And all the strength it takes
To face just one more day
Did you know?
Did you hear?
There’s a story somewhere
About what I did on my vacation
For the last twenty years
Moved like smoke
Through this place
And every other home
That I could never bother to make

If you thought payback was a motherfucker, you never met us.

The shadows so cast by time grow long
Yet never so long across the tide of years
That the currents would ever absolve
Or erode the litany of your sins

A cold wind is growing now
Blowing wild and unfettered
Carrying the scent of blood
And vengeance upon it’s breath

We came for annihilation
We came for liberation
We came
Hard and breathless, howling into the wind

Backs arched and seething
Screaming, with love like blood and
Rapacious smiles full of glaring fangs
Claws set for tearing the black heart

 And rot of oppression out
Extravasating the writhing
And whispered wounds
From our souls

We came.
Hard against the wind
Howling into the black
Against night, against oblivion

Gone to shadow yet reborn to light again
A colossal spell
Cast for destruction
For gnashing teeth to shatter chains

Cast for the transubstantiation