Xyzab

A Poem of Gothic Horror

    

     On the edge of Hades’

third plain (a destination

     unenviable),

stands the jet-hued marble manse

     of the potentate Xyzab.

               No mean devil, he

          (what sublime irony to

                    say he is not mean!).

 

     It is all his joy

to bring suffering, despair,

     and lingering grief.

Fear and loathing? Meat and drink

     to this Author of All Pain,

               his twisted visage

          contorting in obscene mirth

                    as his victims wail.

 

     Dark, profane bishop

in unholy cathedral,

     night court of the damned—
cruel and unusual,

     the punishments inflicted

               on the hapless souls

          whose lot brings them swift before

                    this bar of justice!

 

     Bloated, corpulent

he sprawls, besotted, soiling

     obsidian throne—

stone, black, lifeless as those eyes

     that have seen horrific sights

               innumerable

          within the iron gates of

                    that terminal realm.

 

     Apothecary

to the nether regions, his

     mortar and pestle

grind out death like so much grain,

     cracking under rough mill-stone

 

               to feed twisted souls

          who earn their perverse living

                    snatching away life.  

 

     From his filth-slicked halls,

mentor of poisoners and

     envenomers, he—

his infernal alchemy

     finds ample export, troubling

               the sad world above.

          Assassins rise up, like wraiths,

                    and, cursed, call him blessed.

 

     Out of immense casks

he draws porters, bocks, cream stouts

     that one might enjoy,

were they not a toxic font

     of his own fey invention—

               unspeakable soups

          of profound virulence that

                    words fail to describe.

 

     Fuddled with vile brew,

Xyzab nods, incontinent—
     reek beyond belief,

so foul the slate floor cries out

     from the rank indignity.

               Yet, he cares not, grim

          hell-hound, Prince of Perdition.

                    Let the black ale flow!

 

     In his sloshing cups

he reels, madness seizing him

     as he waxes wroth.

Slaking his all–consuming

     thirst, he serves his wretched guests,

               delighting in their

          ghastly shrieks, ‘til all is spent,

                    and the worms crawl in.   

 

                                   —D. W. McMillen        

                                      9 June 2006

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