Godsblood
Simon
MacCulloch
The water’s running pink again, and I
No longer trust the bulletins. I know
That caught within its ever-darkening flow
Is something that the scientists deny:
The blood of Old Ones, exiled from the sky
And prisoned in the oceans, where they grow
Huge tumours which, millennially slow,
Erupt at last to bleed their victims dry.
I bathe myself in crimson star-born streams
And drink the pulsing ichor of the dead
Who yet in cancerous animation lie,
Envenoming the planet with their dreams
And seeding dark rememberings in my head.
I drown, and in this deep my death will die.
