The Dream House of Abominations

Anthony Bernstein

Within the dream house of abominations,

stale air begins to stir awakening forgotten torments,

breathing new life into the ancients.

Something slowly creeps out of the shrouded dark.

Fisheye shadows swell and contort on every wall.

From putrid ebon pits emerge mangy lupine brutes,

as seven gangling silhouettes rise protohuman

and dance the dance of a thousand generations

     t o     d   u     s    t         .

In a dervish frenzy

they dance in lunatic ecstasy.

Lost in trances

they challenge the ages with primal angst.

In grotesque undulations

they dance the dance of the Skin-Crawlers.

In unholy silence

they dance to the daughters of the Red Bone Women.

Within the dream house of abominations,

witness orgies of rent flesh as tangles of moist bodies

writhing in orgasm tear the meat from their very bones.

Behold the art of hunger, as a derelict traveler

sates himself with slavering delight upon entrails pulled from a faceless corpse riddled with pestilence.

View a crone with wizened visage hollering in the

throes of labor, gut deep in a pool of curdled milk.

Impaled by rusty hooks through the back

appears a fresh-faced man of the cloth

clad only in a coat of shiney sanguine sweat.

Swinging suspended from frayed nautical ropes

he drips great crimson dollops.

Giggling, howling, crooning stygian hymns,

this man of God swings on and on to meet Jesus.

Before you the dream house throws open

a multitude of arcane doorways.

Clouds your vision with dank gossamer mist.

Shows you impossible phantasms 

swimming out of that steamy swirl.

Captures your eyes with lurid displays of fascination

and cajoles you down it's queasy maze of corridors

     promising

                            eternal

                                               residency.