Aforgomon’s Creation [Poetic Prose of an ungodly creation]

(Part I, Aforgomon’s son) I saw the god-son, of Aforgomon, there was something in his gaze likened to a salty hurricane! Like his father he tried to swallow me, but I escaped to the land and by the Tower of Kura, to its tower by the Black Sea: the tower now mostly underneath the deep; to his son, his creation, Aforgomon’s creation: I was free.

How did he give him birth, I asked myself this when I found out he had a son: a horror story of course, he had brought me into his land of terror beyond the earths crust, to earth’s core I think, someplace deep, deeper than hells abyss: the land where hidden demons live, and jungle whores hid; where Tom Ron, Thomas Tin, and Vain Pain, once novelties of his kingdom were now vipers swallowing one another, as they were now attached to, onto the head of Aforgomon the younger [the son]. He was a cursed god to look at, a god of three tentacles, that had viper heads on each; himself, he had raging red flaming hair, and bloodshot eyes, fangs on the side of his mouth that hung over his lips, long ears like an elephants.

An envious god, god-son, and resentful god, and one with a trance like look, almost paralyzed with hateful desires, with prostate looks. And he watched his three playmates devour one anther, bite them, swallow them, but they could not kill one another, no they could just show their teeth, there bite, their lucid dreadful endless plight to bite, nibble and gnaw at one another. It was his enjoyment to watch these cadaverous creatures he himself created for companionship, feast on one another like lethal shades fighting in the moon’s sardonic face.

“I have come,” so he told me then—his father, long ago, before he was born: before the son-god of Aforgomon, after peering from his abyss den, up through the hub of deeper-hell, or wherever it was, where he had lived for eons, now on earth’s surface, his death by chains, could not hold me, nor his “fire” was simply more symbol than bite, for it did not hold me neither, not his gleam, nor did it obliterate me as he said it would; trying to terrify me is what it was, as in his dizzying gaze, that really froze me into a sea within his eyes—for a moment: deep was his pitiless far-reaching, wind full chamber within his brain—the eye of his brain (for I could see it)—for I could feel it, He had no pity for anybody—and he could not have me. A glassy curious bird he was.

My body veered before the wind, as he appeared—at my command, that is when: when He turned and swallowed me—, but I called onto the King of Kings, the Lord of Lord’s and He spit me out, along with his necromancy!... and was sent back to his voiceless race, the demigod’s in some hidden cell of decay, in the earth’s inner marshy shore; that is when he searched for a way to give birth to a physical and spiritual being, the one now he calls his son: who is a mountain of madness, a luring octopus in the threshold of some vortex, which is doomed with its three goiter liked, human viper heads: chewing and gnawing at one another like dead mutton? He was the product of a vicious god; a demonic creature with power, eeriness and terror at his limbs, haunting even the shadows, the ghouls and ghosts, imps and devils, nightmares. He was really nothing, nothing but fumes of some reeking noisome birth: sucked out of a woman’s womb, and given three heads, he wanted mine, but he got his own nightmare. He was so ugly he frightened the stars: necrophilia. And to the heads of the octopus I can only say they were too busy trying to slay the world, impress the times, and court the multitude with wordy rhymes. Thus came no passion, only ecstasy and woe; a hackney’s feeling of the general heart. This so called the throb of triumphant, all becoming their lark; and the Younger saw this, and with their emptiness, he filled himself up with these fools, and before they knew it, they were part of the valley of worms, and riper joys came when the Younger saw they had no recourse, no king, no love, only self, and thus, he possessed them; what else?

Aforgomon: He had found a woman whom woud bare him a son, she was a cruel world, in a ruthless situation, and thereafter, he turned her into a reptilian serpent, liken to the son she bore him: likened to the three heads that scorned him—and she ran and ran and hid, and cremated herself on a dark pyre: now ashes; for she could not bear his supreme irony, his strange mind! Nor her sons, nor the three heads that were twisted like trees.

(Part II, the Escape?) How did I escape: through ancient harbor lanes, and pain, a little nervous pace, a redeeming hope within my heart, a floor and roof within my soul, something they were lacking, for it was emptiness they had, which the son-god looked for and found in them: obscured by smoke, cobwebs, and frosts, is what cost, cost the three their demise: thus, I tossed the dark and the dusty, as they tried to charm their way, I tossed the dark and the dusty to the wind, and prayed. As the son-god, piled the twisted trees around their legs, and cast them into the lake, and when His father with gluttonous eyes, laid upon the jungle woman, she bore him green mangled revulsion; from the earth came this noxious birth, and weedy beast, dark green: heedless, the beast wanted to die, but it lived, in muttered darkness, with its three heads.

Dedicated to: Clark A. Smith and H.P. Lovecraft #970 12/18/05

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