Brooding Darkness
[Macabre Poems by Dennis L. Siluk]


Brooding Darkness


Orion’s Orchard
[Poetic Prose]


In the universe, the one that surrounds the world (perhaps the mind as well)—someone once threw a ball—I do believe—somewhere, and it exploded—, somewhat: which slowed everything down a bit, and its thrust (its push, in all directions) is still keeping it airborne: carried by the push that was set in motion (so very long ago); hence, when it loses its momentum, it will crash, I do suppose, and all that is, will be the ball (its substance: what is hanging on to it, in it): that is all that will be left, everything else just: waves, just waves in nothingness what, that one person once made thrust out of; as a result, nothingness and all that it created will come to some kind of a standstill (I repeat)—it has to: for what will carry it? Save, that that someone does not create something else out of some kind of new anything. It’s how it was, how it had to be, how else could it have been: come about to surround the world, with all its t’s crossed, and I’s dotted. We normally don’t think this way, lest we want the mind to become mad.
I heard a voice in this dream of my mind, it said, “I am immortal, I sit behind the suns, and I write epitaphs of all, all the living things, then I open up their lips, an endless task it seems at times: the zenith of life comes from nothingness—and I, I hear their dying wish: to remain, to be something; eyeless faces, that is what you all were once, but by My graces so you became, and they become—more.

Orion’s illumed by my side, showers Me like a rainbow with its gasses, breathless orchard: it is the magnificent mocker of the universe: perhaps you would call it such, perchance: Baudelaire’s fantasy; or Poe’s Twilight; or Clark A. Smith’s perilous deep orchards; George Sterling’s musical images, ghostly lights; Dennis Siluk’s murmur, bemused silence; Ellis’ epigrammatic flight of the imagination. I touch, only touch (lest I destroy my own makings): only touch beyond its burning drums, into the winds of nothingness—what I created it all from. The horse head: it roars like a volcano, a moat around me; the Universe is like a squeezing viper, a sacrificial rip in all the proportions I’ve carved out of the thrust, as you call it, from the push: I fixed it for you: the watcher from earth.”


Comment by the Author: “Here is a cosmic poem of sorts, which I hope you enjoy; I do trust this briefly and vividly will exposes the element of suggestiveness of the beauty of God’s vast universe.”


#1366 6/5/2006; written while at the El Parquetito Café in Lima, Peru [Miraflores] one afternoon.


Valley of the Beast
[Armageddon]




They were assembled for the feast, the feast of victory, in the Valley of the Beast, the Valley of Armageddon!

The vaults of Hell now, were opened, to assault the nations of the earth: hence, Hell spoke:
‘Cursed be to those who do not heed these words: join us in the valley of the beast, for war!’

And so the world sat waiting on war, with blood soaked knees, in the Valley of Beast. And they came from far and near: from bog, valley and woodlands; from the north, east; and far west—brother against brother (to fight for the Beast, in the Valley of Armageddon).

They came from Hell’s abyss, commanded by none other than, Agaliarept, Lucifer’s henchman; with hissing, clutching at the feet of nations, until they carried: “War, war, war…!” And there they stood with flaming swords, and many died caked with blood up to their thighs, as the fury roared—two billion died; and thus, the Prince of Darkness, was shackled for a season, but he will be back: by and by.


Note: written at he Café “Tarata” Lima Peru, 5/1/2006 [afternoon, during lunch).


Black Galaxy


O midnight mystery! That links the soul with sight
Like winds upon a mountain’s side
Glares your deepest sapphire eyes—;
Here is Pandora’s pyre,
Where chariots fly through nebulas.
O midnight mystery! Here is the Black Galaxy?


Written at EP Café, Miraflores, and Lima, Peru; 6/7/06; redone, 6/9/06: #1370

Moiromma’s Dawn
[Arctic planet on the rim, between
two solar systems, ours being one]



Forlorn, the empires of this planet
Forgotten, is its sun, under its innumerable clouds
Arctic nights, sink below its morning star
And never a soul, shall ever know
The yearning of Moiromma’s people…!

#1372 6/9/06 [Written in Lima, Peru]


A Testimony from Hell


Cold are the massive ramparts of deep Hell
Demonic beasts stand waiting by their posts:
Agaliarept, the Henchman of the host
He, guards the unholy profound supreme:

Eternity waits—thine war-abyss eyes:
Here the cosmic demons pace and lye;
Underneath the oceans surface, and its tides,
Waiting to take control, of contending skies.

Down Hell’s corridors: flames sweep the deep
Blood hath wet, the devouring trodden walls:
Thunder, unbigoted, unresting, orbits—;
Immeasurable nights, fume the halls.

Here, ye— eternal gates (for fates) lift up
For humankinds, induce unnumbered tears
Here, ye—the mammoth disc, of the vast sun
Beams realms of blood-red dark tow’rs of death!

O dim bowls of fire, with faint unrest
Thine silence now rules the ghostly deep
Held by the pyres of the spectral past:
“Be patient,” says Satan, “we’ll rule the weak!”

Day shall soon befall this ungraceful abyss
Time shall unwind, these darken dungeons:
And the legions of Hell, serve God’s will; says
Satan: “The near doom of mankind: in time!…”

#1366 6/3/2006



Commentary: we as humans hold no truce with death, nor a peace treaty with hell, it is the calls of the unchosen, unworthily, the degrade of beauty that knocks at our front door, yes, they come up all the way up from hell’s corridors, to minister honey, to the divided hearts of earth, likened to a hungry bear. Reluctant we may be, but so are they.


The Keeper of the Dungeon
[Opiel: The Gatekeeper]


The Dark, damp, deep dungeons
(Underneath the castle grounds)
Where freedom has no sunlight
This dark palace,
Is where the cadaverous dungeon keeper resides?
Where death filters its way into, this dungeon’s stonewalls:
Here, upon your arrival, hate—with mortar mixed tortures
Fester about; infinite, horrid decaying bones separated from flesh
Paralyzed human spirits—live…(the Keeper’s clientele)
Live in a lifetime of hideous silence.
Here, all cease to speak, blinded and stripped
Raiment’s, just muffled echoes—
In these Dark, damp, deep dungeons
(Underneath the castle grounds)
Where freedom has no sunlight
Where death filters its way into this dungeon’s stonewalls.
Here all will forget ones original name, after time
And all carry their own chains [no crosses allowed]:
Contemplate propositions once made—now too late.

It was this demonic beast, Opiel: keeper of the dungeon
(Once keeper of Hell’s gates)
That broke the silence seized the arms of each human being
Grabbed some by the nostrils
Dragged them disquietingly
Across the stone floors, in utter darkness;
In silence, darkness, solitude, who could stop him?
Motionless they all stood…!

“You are all my guests,” he laughed
His echo was like a pack of rats.
(No future, only madness.)

Dungeon walls speak: blank, dark secrets:
They have unconquerable spirits,
Impending footsteps, no fatigue,
Cold and slimy bodies; these walls have feet,
Instinctively they groan, wiggle about,
As if their thighs are blinking eyes
They do not know defeat!

One guest once told me:
They thought it was a dream
But when they awoke, it was reality!
“Ghosts have their dungeons of madness also…”
(I quote: the keeper of the gates);
Some are let loose to created havoc
Others like reptiles, sleep in these dark dungeons
Night after night after night; so says the Keeper:
“Revenge is my birthright.”

#1370 6/14/06 Written at EP-Lima, Peru