…strip the skin from your skeleton, the tarwater a gripping gum, a birthing goo—

eyes alight with the blackness of tarpit sludge,
or light trapped inside stones—a stream of primordial
imagery flooding his bucking brain: the mash meshing
with his body, sliding into his spine, melding its history
into his blood, its story into his skull, memories into his
marrow—it unfolds as a stream of iridescent light,
its brilliance beyond words, its colors from outside
the realm of the rainbow, from before the dawn of the sun

—that space of hidden sound—

fanning outward from nothingness, from beneath the
carpet, the floor, the ground, the dirt, the stone,
the clay where the monsters decay,
somewhere in that churning,
boiling molten core,

a birth of heat and pressure and earthen blood—

the ancient creature skeletons locked in place
—the elders, the eyeless ones—
stripped and skinned, structured solid and
floating through the void—calcified bones
—the blackness a sludgy glop, cooked to bubbling,

spewing volcanic ash, streamed and spit
through crooked cracks, the earth’s ruptured seams,
the pressure-tears, tectonic terror rips—
blasting up from beneath, a heat unleashed,
a cooking fire,

the dark lodge of mighty beasts beaten by
their own sloth, by the parasites, the beetle bugs
and suck-nose fleas, crawling, always crawling,
stealing blood-meals from amongst the forest furs.

This is where the great gross being learned to grow:
the winged beast—Lurk—the blackened skull ‘n’ bones
moon-rider, a man in shape, his heritage a disheartened
breed long dead, weakened by the ash skies,
the sunless eras—the years of raining
fire and sloshing sulfur seas—his time that of nightmares,
his claws as old and hard as the black stones.

Eons and eons, all spent without eating, within
a soft-shell, a warm and wet egg, membrane of his
mother’s memory—the time passed without articulation,
before the forever egg bubbled up from beneath
     the boiling goo,
spewed him out into the world of ash and blackened bones,
his will iron-clad—to eat—eyes bloody with the throbbing
torture, the aching newness of hunger.

Thus the birth of Lurk—the demon king, his blood the blood
of boiled beasts, his knowledge the knowledge of ancient
stones—history’s great parasite—

the nightmare of nothingness:

There is a blackness in the center of the eye that eats light,
there is a silence in the sounds between the clickings of
     the bedbugs—

and it is in these places
where Lurk hides.