drawing by the author.
to what is seen; is never known
all that is spoken will never die
but only to be sent away into the fire and brimstone
knowing all that is alive, but not known to be
all that is seen, is to be unknown by the fears
a grace to be followed, left into the blind
--- An Original Poem
In the eyes of the place where I sit -- looking into the darkness one has seen the that nightmares that one is all to familiar with as I look into the cold of the darkened night. I saw the horrors inside of the dark place -- knowing that there is something there looking at me. Seeing the horrors that I have witnessed and have known growing up as a teenager in Chicago -- the thought of falling asleep on a park bench, as one sleeps there -- a fear slowly creeps up into their soul and beneath their skin. This fear -- is within the unknown, this unknown haunts the streets as a gang member. This dark place -- one could feel the cold urban air impaling the human veins.
I sit there in the darkness alone -- not knowing what the future has in store for me. Seeing all that remain -- that the eyes sit there, staring at me as a rat in the sewer. My thinking was clouded by the thoughts of the homeless mission -- inside of the place was undescrible and what the people were thinking as they were looking me. Their thoughts were reading the nightmares and feeding off them like a meal in the shelter. These dreams that look me as the demon in the shadows of a place that one sees in the nightmares that walk among them. These people know and the abomination whom sits there watching in my eyes -- they don't wish to understand or try to understand, all they do is sermonize their dogma down my throat and try to cut my insides out with a double edged sword sharpened by religion. My thoughts as I sat there in the ally were that was I going to freeze in Chicago air or to sit in the chapel and listen to another persons philosophy -- either way I was to sit in a dark place.
The images that came to mind as I sat there thinking -- a vision of a person walking around in the darkness, as a creature in one of Stephen King's stories. What is one to say -- the supernatural is something that always comes to mind or a gang member tagging one of the walls. The thoughts that run around as a chicken beheaded -- or something walking the streets as a bad horror movie. Perhaps what comes to mind isn't as one seems but there's something there -- something of an unspeakable horror. This something or someone is as horrific as a drive-by shooting. As I stood there in the dark place -- I witnessed something that one would wish that wasn't in their memories, but as I say this -- there was something there; all that was left behind was a mirror, white powder, and a blood stained needle. This needle -- one describes to be the expiration's tool or the death's hand. Looking into the darkened presence, one could see them -- sleeping beneath the walls of a dark place. Into the eyes of what remains -- is the eyes of mortality looking into the windows of a damaged soul.
These eyes belong to a child of the blameless -- knowing nothing of the horrors within a dark place. The horrors that are there -- watching and knowing of which he prays of the nightmares that should not be. His witness is the reality of the nightmares that haunt him in the darkened streets that walk with the vagrants in the mission. All of those eyes -- looking at him with the eyes of the spirit in a dark place. Knowing that I have seen this child -- the tormented babe in the shadow of darkness, he is haunted by the spirits inside of the mission and the beliefs of a street prophet are rammed down their throat. As I stood there -- I watched him sermonize the lies that he cannot read between. The horrors that walk within the truth of his witchcraft as he spoke of the modern day plague -- this disease in the payloads.
The thoughts as I sat here -- watching the one inject a nightmare into his veins and snort a horror into his lungs. The visions in the shelter stood there alone as a ghost in a subway. As I sat there in the darkened corner I wrote this entry into my journal -- this journal that I kept in the inked green back with the Nine Inch Nails logo on the small pocket -- this book I kept many years, prior to going into the Navy given to me as a going away present:
The nightmares that walked with me see the horrors within the thoughts that shouldn't be spoken of, but in the horrid realities they are there -- looking straight at me as a ghost watching over a corpse that sleeps alone. But the thoughts that haunt me as I stood out in the streets knowing that I am tormented -- tormented by the fact that there was someone out there -- watching what I speak or what I do. This spirit appears in form of a man -- a man walking in the darkness wearing a dark green flannel with a black hooded sweatshirt, black jeans, and a pair of combat boots. This spirit was a mirror image of myself, but there was something different about him -- the necklace. His necklace bares a cross with a crucified corpse which was half decayed and several animals followed him -- they were his demons, his friends. This doppleganger bared a very evil complextion -- the look in its eyes were that of murder and insanity. The animals were small rodents, but there was something to them -- each one of them had eyes of a human. My thoughts were in a state of torment -- someone looking just like me, but yet he wasn't me. As I stood there -- the man was watching me, looking as I started to walk. He smelled my fear -- looking at my thoughts -- this man was as of an image in the mirror -- a sight of what is of my own.
The nightmares that follow me -- are in form of the faceless man. This demon -- appears to me from time to time. It knows my thoughts and the method to the heart of madness within my soul. The horrors that walk with the demon -- knows of the dreams within the overcrowded homeless shelter, the shelter with the stature of a prison and its walls. I knew it was there -- the demon... It has many forms, but the one that I knew many years was the image of the man in the mirror. What goes thru this man's mind one cannot say as I stand there in the darkened streets as it stood there watching me -- and the pets of his following him from the horrid alley that he walks. The thought -- this thought haunted me as I sat in the crowded room with the man that thought as Mr. Crowley -- in the way that he practiced the art of black magic and the book which was in the chapel -- the writings that spoke of blasphemy -- the evil within the homeless shelter stood alone in the shadow of darkness.
As I wrote that entry -- the thought tormented me of being in a house full of strangers. Knowing of the paranoia that stood there and watched me as rat in the subway. They were in that as something supernatural, but yet they weren't -- or least something that isn't known by the simple man. In the dream that I wrote of in that journal there was something there -- a horrific vision but it won't let me close to it. But I felt something -- something that cannot be named in human form. All I can remember were the words that were spoken in the dream -- dark, and prophetic. In the dream it knew -- of something but it won't say. But there was something -- a maddening in the soul telling me that there was something there looking at me -- an phantasm or a dark angel looking over me. What is one thinking at this time -- who is to say, but eyes of paranoia were there watching me with a blackened soul. As I sat in the ally -- thinking about that phantasm, I was trying to fight the deathlike air in the darkened ally, the only thing that gave me was the lantern from my chain. My hands were shivering and couldn't stop shaking -- the only thing keeping me warm was the heat from a generator. In my thoughts were the words spoken inside of the nightmare -- the words left thoughts of a darkened paranoia were walking through a dark place. The images in that left me trapped as an inmate in a prison cell. The images inside of the darkening poem spoke of a nightmarish reality -- a reality with the method into the heart of madness. The poem that I discovered is something of a tormented man that wrote it as he was going off to prison for a crime that he was framed for.
I lay here dead ,,,,
but alive, dreaming
my soul looking back at me,,,
thinking of the torment
that which it has faced alone,,,
knowing,, of the fear that was left behind.
The prayers that it has spoken,,,
for the crime that trapped it
the thoughts that it has known ,,,
wishing that it was without guilt
this sin has the blood upon its hands -- the death that it commited,,
the wages of sin is death -- death is sin,, I have sinned
I am here -- breathing, but for how long?
Knowing how long that clock ticks...
tick,,,tick,,,tick -- as I walk that trapped mile,,
Miles of sin that follow me,,,
as a spirit,,, the spirit that watches over Death Row,,,
I pray for this; knowing of the years of sitting here,,,
the years that torment me.
ii.
I sit here inside of this cell,,,
watching the world suffer as they
are deaf to the words of street preacher,,
the words that he speaks are the teaching of a prophet,,
this prophet is the one that lays for the angel of death,,
in the eyes of the damned -- the world is trapped by a reality,,
a reality that should not be
all that is seen and all that is known,,,
look into the heart and the windows to the soul,,,
the angel that come in black,,know of the future,,
in the eyes that see what should not be,,,,
Looking at the writings of the poet -- the thoughts of this man were of a wrongful cause. The thoughts of this man watch me as the eyes of something that should not be. The horror within the words that he spoke -- were of visions of a nightmare which appear to be -- hell within a cell block, the type of cell block that Terry spoke of inside of his letters. The horrors that haunt me as I walked through the ally were of finding something I pray that I wouldn't find or that I would find wouldn't be a corpse that was half rotten or bleeding from the eyes. When I found the poem I also came across a letter of a dark and horrific nature. Apparently by the nature of the letter -- he had a background of witchcraft and knowledge of Christian dogma. By the looks of the letter -- they treated him like shit. His thought patterns were strong and didn't let them brainwash him as they did to them -- the thoughts that haunted him were surely tormented as the picture in his mind were of a place; this place was that of an old, dark chapel. The darkening poem was there -- the words of that horrific poem spoke to him as a vision that should not be, the image of a horror that is beyond atonement.
In the stairway -- one can see the thing that walks in a dark place, knowing of the tormented preachers and is martyring their spirit. I have seen this subway, once in dream -- this dream was inside of an alley near an old chapel. The smell of the place was quite strange to the human sense of understanding -- it is that of human waste and dried blood. As I walked futher into this place -- I saw this subway train, but its origin was nothing that I could explain or describe. I went inside the train only to be welcomed by an image of a corpse that was half decayed. It was wearing a suit that was bright white and holding a black leather bound Bible -- the words I heard was the voice of an vangelist, but it was indestict. As I was listening to the voice in the darkness -- I saw something walking the hallway of the subway train, the phantasm from the alley near the homeless mission. I saw it -- the ghost dressed in black jeans, hooded sweats shirt and a flannel. The cold air from him floated past the rest of the corpses that were there -- lookin at me as I was going to be the next person to die.
I stood there -- paranoia was sitting there next to me as the blasphemy looked at my soul. The smell of horror stood over the rotted flesh as a fly hovering over a peice of shit. Just sitting there -- my thoughts were going to the point of insanity -- this is just a nightmare that was a result of something I ate crawling back up my throat. I started puking as the doppleganger started eating the remains of a person that died of a coccaine overdose. As I witnessed this I felt my eyes were very heavy -- tormented in this subway.
I then fell into a dark, tormented sleep.
The next thing I knew was a voice speaking to me, "Nathen -- wake up bro! Your having another bad nightmare. Hey shithhead -- its me, Robert."
"Robert -- thank fucken God it's you. I just had a vicious nightmare, something very horrific -- I just can't describe it."
"Reading too much H.P. Lovecraft before going to sleep -- I see, I warned you, never read him before going online. He will get to you if you into a gothic chatroom." Robert joked.
"Fuck you, That is not funny -- besides, I like the stories that the people like to tell on line. You may never know when they find a dark place -- one person wrote of something about he was hanging out with the homeless. His posting were dark -- but yet frightening. He said his handle was -Ravenswood- as in the Metra Station, Ravenswood in Uptown Chicago. Surely he was a disturbing individual -- the way he posted was cryptic in nature, but honest in a dark -- frightening way. No telling when he would appear. He spoke of the place that was unnamable -- which was in the nightmare that I dreamed. I don't know this of his origin but he said he lived in Chicago -- near the Pacific Garden Mission. I asked other people in the chatroom wondering if they knew of him -- no one really knew of his origins other than that. He never appeared in the daytime hours, nor the early evening. All I could say is this could he be of the origin known as The Dark Place?"
9 Feb 1998 Writings From The Grave, drawing 2000
the poem "Trapped" copyright 1995 by the author
"Untitled" by the author, 1996 Writings From The Grave
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