And bats and owls that offal cleft, Proclaim their burdens to a dell, Whilst crafts that some strange witch hath rigged, Bring slaves unto this Cesspool's coils. When carcants gleam like scarlet foam, And hiss of pyres froth at each light In dongas vext as jazels flare From splinter'd tombs of Kings in dust, A straggling mist that cleft Hell's dome, Peers at the gloom and strobic sight Of charnel shard as vypers blare Wrathfully at each Monarch's bust. And doleful dirges rake the gloom, A whisper'd sin sobs at the wrecks; Graven imps clasp papyrus old And rant each Body's deeds of shame. Come from a dank and sunken womb All stranded ghouls on keels and decks Where Cyclops fought as Vellum told In cyphers bright, sprung from each flame, Make hideous eyes at the night. And terrors that Tartarus bred Assail each kingdom treblefold: A gangrel clan that someone flayed, Skirr thro' the dungeoned halls in flight And seek the caverns of the dead. Where tapers gleam like virgin gold The tombs of dead queens are arrayed: There, too, a witch unfurls her cowl And scans the shambling hordes to curse, And with the light that cyclones split, She juggles secrets of her lust, And hurls her voice at Néphele's owl, Past portals dark, where harlots nurse Their skinless limbs that Torture bit, And stamps her feet into the dust As, into olpes she pours a tear: And, musing at the clouds of gloom, She wrinkles face and lifts her hands To mutter words unto the night. Whereon a ghoul-king hath writ Fear, And changes gloom to purple bloom, The shoals to opal-sanded strands That reach, past wrecks to crystal light, Where mossy vales with poppies bloom, And hastes her flight from Terror's urn, To onyx seas where agates glow, And feats her eyes on woes of hell, Upon the foam-dreams of king Doom, Where monsters in red cauldrons burn, 'Mid shrieks that from their vitals flow With airs that rasp each bone-strewn dell. And sea-linkt skies of charnel black-- A savage dome! streaked scarlet red, Where maids for demon lovers mourn; And caskets spew a dusky foam That quench the thirst of yon lone wrack That holds the sultry, naked dead, Who caught the eyes of waves forlorn, Now bathed in blood in Hecate's home.