Magic, Pooetry


Tendrils of gas linger through the town.
Corrupting those dreams to nightmares of brown.
All as one the townsfolk behold the sign.
That portent of smell and sorrow “occupied.”

The weak clamber for the waves unaware.
They are being driven toward that damnable lair.
The church of crap, the unholy loo.
The undead sewer of great Cthulpoo.

Holding their minds he pushes them forth.
The ship’s compass set northwest by north.
Shielding their mind’s eye from fecal glare.
And blocking their noses from toxic air.

Beckoned forth by his foul avatar.
Conjured forth by the unflushable star.
They hesitate at the door of the dread dunny.
The sounds from beyond sounding rather runny.

They will not knock, it will not answer.
Their brains crushed by their alien master.
The time has gone, the brown star has fled.
In toilet water, the visitors drift dead.

He slumbers still, bobbing and floating.
Forever tempting men to go boating.
That is not dead which can eternal lie.
And with strange aeons in death’s brown eye.

By Guest Pooet, The Poorophet

Pure Pooetry

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