h, the headless swans now perform. The scorching scent of brandy, it stains the marble archway.

Now... the clocks fail at seven.

Artist of cruelty, sculptor of grey things, weaver of foul song; offspring of no-one, father of no child, writer of torrid ballet; mentor of bleakness, poet of torment, melter of amethyst... somnium.

"Oh what a magnificent feast for the eyes, every decrepit wall burning brighter than the very sun, and from where I stood crows and things crowded the highest tower and the orchards bowed and moaned in deep agony. Strange it was I think how small young children laugh at this."

Like witches brew of snow and leaves and sleeping through a storm.

Bairns be warned now the hornéd scholar will come, through his novels his coldness and hate will run, thus it was true the brains of children did swell, my blood runs cold as to you this tale I tell.

Bairns in rags are swept aside, make way for the bell ringer.

Artist of cruelty, sculptor of grey things, weaver of foul song; offspring of no-one, father of no child, writer of torrid ballet; mentor of bleakness, poet of torment, master of death's string quartet; the author of the burning flock.

And so to the cliffs...

"And then quietly and without fail, one hundred weary peepers amid the grass, peer out among the waves, frozen deep to the bone preparing to be driven into the sea."

Picking apples in the moonlight was pleasant, we stood on the corpses to reach them, and now we are hostile to birds and creatures of the undergrowth; dine a meal of wrath, sup thy whiskey of the night and be gone.

One by one they are swept into the cold watery depths.

Beyond the clouds, as they fall like ice. Marble, raging, steeples, crashing. Revenge is the sweetest fruit.

Black and sour to the summit we soar, within the feathers of depression. And oh how we craved a fresh spring morning.

Here a flower for you, we often think of you and your siblings buried shallow in the grass, the grass upon which at night I lay drunk on red wine, singing to the sky. (Endeavour / Conatus)

At the bottom of the winding staircase and out onto the cobbles, in a drunken rage I burst, things leering, towering. Then...

Children and family track him back to his lair, torture his soul by the burning of books and scripts, ripping them down from the shelves and rewriting this story in hope of salvation from destinies past.

Picking applies in the moonlight was pleasant, we stood on the corpses to reach them, letting the radiant summer morning creep through our windows stirs no memories, but the fattening well-fed rooks help us to remember!!

2. The Wanderings Of Ophelia Through The Untamed Countryside

Ventus planctus caligo fallo suus.

The lilies part gracefully at the sinking of the sun. The abandoned silken bed revels in leaves of the countryside. The chess pieces are moved by unseen hands. The butterflies gather in a secret place unspoken of. The birds are uneasy, the stag darts through the woodland. The water upon the pond clouds as Ophelia's fish-eaten garment rises, her soddened garment rises.

A skyscape so heart-melting, the waltz of the mighty oak, captured and humoured as their arms tower between the stars and past the Plough. Whilst close by a vague scuttle of rats stirs the undergrowth as she lifts her pale declining head and sets to her haunt, run swift Ophelia.

And if I were to turn quickly enough would I see her? The fright as she ran, but she ran from nothing but the sound of the wind, to whip around her... as if to call her back into the depth of the woods, to curse at her more, so the earth with its violin can scratch at her mind. The Orion would throw down things of delightful devastation.

Cast a keen eye on the ghostly movements on the stairs.

And pray do tell what secrets do Saturn and she hold? Strange how the birds land on her unafraid, unstirred, in a labyrinth of the exquisite, caverns of the surreal, domain of the treacherous, place of the fearless.

The sun now in its slumber and folklore stirring fiercely.

A skyscape so heart-melting, the waltz of the mighty oak, captured and humoured as their arms tower between the stars and past the Plough. Whilst close by the vague scuttle of rats stirs the undergrowth as she lifts her pale declining head and sets to her haunt, run swift Ophelia.

To illuminated gardens...

Upon the meadow she shall run, Frayer, face of angel. On this eve the sky is not yet black but dark blue, this doth happen in the summer. Her search will become triumphant, I pledge my soul to this...

As an unpleasant array of throat-eaten foxes bombard the Manor, my memories of her are laid down and torched. Run swiftly Ophelia...

3. On The Eve Of The Grimly Inventive

Soar with you, soar in vigour. Washed with an old vessel, smashed, surging up to The Andromeda to cascade down on the architecture... easily visible at the glacier even. A path was found, a way to the lungs of an overwhelming all-conquering orchestra.

A hall of unearthly woodwind spews down from the Master. My angel beats her wings in the void of his garden. The waves clash up forming a sculpture of a renaissance, this being the eye of the gallant and the grimly inventive.

Summoning.

Suddenly an essence clasps me that I have yet never felt. Sickening things that were hybrid and hostile, breeding in our gardens. Things that would walk from the carvings in amber, prey on the things without wings that were burnt in the ashes of Herjned, the settlements of the lords...

And as the climatic pages of a classic novel are blown across the water at the Lake Geneva a masterpiece is now lost in their minds forever. Now let a marble fist descend and smash the earth; bring forth lesbian ghosts, let us slip and romp through the snow whilst being watched by the scholars of old, recording our movements for people to come.

Washed in with an old vessel, smashed, surging up to The Andromeda to cascade down on the architecture... easily visible at the glacier even. A path was found, a way to the lungs of an overwhelming orchestra. On the eve of the grimly inventive. Rushing to me the history of a unique spectre-full hour.

4. Within Deepest Red (The Opening Of...)

Quietly as it began, spilling then forming.
This rain is so strange... emerald I think.
The owl by my window brings tales of another...
apparently melting our opal.

We centre around this crying ghost;
feed it wine and show it the moon,
in its green fixation.

I am the essence of an evening storm, the fiery obsession inside me
within deepest red.

Forever eyes, so tiny,
disappear into the undergrowth.
Ghostly lights, jade and crimson,
the head of a swan adrift on high seas.

I am the essence of an evening storm, the fiery obsession inside me
within deepest red.

The horses await us, several of them, elegantly white.

Lovelorn eyes that search the darkness,
eyes of the fox I intrigue you.
Misty moors beneath face of night,
hide yourself before I waste you.

I smell Brasnov yet I do sleep, I dance with her body in the Arges deep.

The owl by my window brings tales of another... apparently melting our oceans.

Some see me in the dark, carving shapes into the sand.

Unexplainable sound phantom gathering ground.

I feed your womb, as we wait for the rain and peace favours us at last and talking is strain and as I await, the moon turns liquid in the sea.

Blood and snow serenade, immense anger of the clouds.
Unknown paths of the mind, macabre gut-churning sounds.

5. An Autumn To Cripple Children

6. A Voice In The Piano

As you drown, I fought oceans in vain; it's cold now under the moon. It's hard to breathe... breathe.

Her screaming I hear from deepest seas, her voice I hear in the piano.

Amid the cold roof of the charnel house, arisen from the sweet sick burning scent; I'm torn, lovelorn, lonely, dying.

Her screaming I hear from deepest seas, her voice I hear in the piano.

The quill it dances painting the paper, and I play not the music but a woman's soft voice, a ghostly message from the girl I'd die for.

Excuse me Mother, but I must join her now.

7. The Music And Woe Between Horse Thieves

Still and almost as if I could not see it, at the foot of the ocean borne along by the driftwood there it lay and as the marble darkened the colossal and corpse pile, arcane within its being, shuddered its wings.
As I stared and my eyes engaged it, there were voices without speech, 'twas the same day the fearful banished it from the old town, the stairs and the moors. Then every wild and unseen flower, begged in song beneath the foulest twist of stench.
Still it lay enveloped in the driftwood, the moon dripping on it. In a bid to avoid the swallow of a day by moon, those with speech bellowed upwards in defiance. Then were the days when the mornings were grey and every greying, long and ever longing.

Deep within something so surreal whilst alone on the isolated savage coastline, I observe tendencies of deep oppression in offerings that coldly washed upon there.

And for a brief moment the woe doth seize the gnawing.

On a steeple a lured albatross did settle, looking at the creations and laughing. Whilst the gallant ready'd for Europe deep with warring. Frame this moment, paint upon it and cherish it fully, for when the clouds turn to red, then the water we feed from will crush our lungs... behold the creation;
Behold the music and woe between horse thieves.

Never did the sparrows gather in threatening flocks, and never before did they dine uon the village. "It dwells unseen in the air, something immense, unfinished" bellows the eldest of the old of gold for his theories.

I often watch my love whilst I hide amongst the caves and without fail she would appear followed by the wooed moths, head fixed down looking for things. I remember day when the moths tuned against her, shredding her flowing her.

But aside from the hustle and the bustle of the crowd, it creeps with strength and with vigour, it goes unseen and without a sound.

Whilst alone on the savage coastline, I observe death before my sore feet. Cometh the fiour, come forth the day where the whales' blood stain the whole bay.

Bring forth the years.

And with myself, time has become red and discordant, of days on the lake with a renowned English poet, the days I would talk and have him believe that removing his eyes would help him, to see that if given the time then his eyes would surely deceive him.

Slowly.

It mumbles in the ears of the demented, promises of summer and garden frolics, of wine by the river bank and of April love in hallucinogenic red sky teachings, but again misery palls a blanket of menacing clouds over the scene leaving no refuge for the fleeing shadows, leaving depression dripping freely and leaving breathless lunatics face down on the hillsides.

Softly.

"The noises it leaves upon the stairs of hundred, ssh, I can hear the hooves in the storm, as men return from the ashes of Herjned with gifts of amethyst. Sometimes after the rain and between the snow I would catch a glimpse of it on the cliff, young is it and dead we are."

A lifetime later, in the base of an oak tree plans were afoot; beards of long face, of wise - books and scripts of it - they told me of fire, fire from my fingertips, before lighting a pipe and trudging out into the blizzards. And then never...

Forever.

In this room the curtains move unaided and a dog now announces our coming. Behold the recreation, behold the music and woe between horse thieves.