"All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks.
But in each event - in the living act, the undoubted deed -
there, some unknown but still reasoning thing
puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask.
If man will strike, strike through the mask!
How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall?
To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me.
Sometimes I think there's naught beyond. But 'tis enough.
He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it.
That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent,
or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him.
Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me.
For could the sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein,
jealousy presiding over all creations.
But not my master, man, is even that fair play.
Who's over me? Truth hath no confines."
(Herman Melville, 1851)
Screeching faces gape from under the ice
Dead eyes howl with yearning breath
Clawing for escape, clawing for life that is yours alone
And I see that they are not the spirits of past men
It is the multitudes of the Abyss, with a terrible hunger scorned
Attempting to spread the dry, unforgiving cold
And no matter how nimbly you dance
A unseen power draws in
Pale reactions, predictable and boring
You cannot evade its winged scythes
Invisible yet everywhere
A dark night of the soul
Lurching through trials and tribulations
Victories that are mine alone to taste

Ageless, flickering
A two-headed serpent writhes within an old skull
Venomous, systemic
The sting in their bite, a curse or an honour
Desire beneath will, both bonded by vision
And flowing points of view experienced as one
Ritual shedding of ancient ideals
Nightly births from cracked shells of souls

And the klepsydrikon which is bestowed
Upon piles of unspoken events
To what purpose do you lead me
If not a reversal, a violent birth, a great becoming?
A dark night of the soul
And doubting, can one open new doors of perception?
For in doubt lies a path of reflection
A cracked portrait, delirious, gray...

The eyes of my lover are a cold lake
And you, Revenge, are you The Way?
Unholy ghost with eyeless gaze

An acidic trip, ill tides crash barren
Ferocious liquid burns
The sulphur whirlpool drawing in
Worthless human craft.

"To the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee;
for hate’s sake I spit my last breath at thee.
Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool!"

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