Traveling Levesque & the Compulsion

A phantom will bores into
the Vulmandr - spread thin and broad -
and speaks with a swollen tongue.
Words, so barely discernible,
withhold assault and comfort
with pristine images of home.

Fed by desertion - made cruel;
the Scar reeks of fierce Compulsion.

Over weary legs and feet,
under placid-yet-shifting sky;
Levesque continues seeking.
Whilst his brothers in warfare wage
in turbulent, scuttled droves,
he attunes himself in tandem
with this livid pulse and swell
that demands his full attention.
Implicit in him, dormant:
a small gateway through which a claw,
malformed and bent at the wrist,
gestures at his second vision.
He then wonders to himself:
What of my brothers and sisters?
Do they not feel their depths plunged
by this agent of turmoil?

Unbeknownst to young Levesque,
many Vulmandr had fled.

Absent in times of great need,
some remain and delight in their
fierce, yet trite retribution.
Others, engulfed by blind panic,
tore the very Earth to shreds
in their frenzy for an escape.
Rogue and rampant, yet so lost;
the Vulmandr were like fire;
constantly hungry and scared -
consuming in a pitch to live.
In their zigzagging pattern
of burnt, desiccated terrain,
they had spelled out some strange word
in some scribe none had claimed to know.

This great mark shone like a light
on an already-darkened land.
None too great a distance off,
Levesque, alarmed, would find new zeal.

There was yet time to rally.

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The Cry of the Scar & the Birth of Levesque

The Maddening Scar, left to gape,
howls its crazed winds in anger.
Its keepers – creators – have gone.
The Vulmandr wage new wars.

The victorious allegiance,
contentious post-victory
and beyond negotiation,
implodes and bellows outward;
disputing through blind destruction
and opportunistic strife.
Our Vulmandr, instruments born,
lay their sights on those they'd loved
and are made to vanquish, eyes wide.
Circumstances so bemoaned;
they, wielders of might beneath heel,
despair and condemn themselves
for such slights against kin and creed -

a stark few grinned as they slew.

While the world spits and convulses -
flaking at edges and core
as its face is marred, defiled -
the wary superpowers,
spreading tendrils, hungry and far,
force their Vulmandr to breed.
A tinny cry is made: so frail,
yet heard and felt by all who
once occupied the roiled Scar;

whimpering Levesque is born.

This babe that emanates purpose -
cutting teeth on sanguine prose
and calculated heresy -
grows and matures; ignorant
of what lay inherent within.
The eldest surviving sect,
stripped bare of old Vulmandr lore,
are kept from the cooing young
lest they ignite a fantasy
in tiny Levesque that he
and his kind are anything more
than weapons in wiser hands.

No sooner a man is he made
to stand stoic on front lines.
An artist affixed to canvas:
the wrath that expels from him
is unlike anything yet seen.
Swaths of towering fallout
are generated and fall swift
by will of Levesque alone.
He, of the brazen Vulmandr,
can only defer, and serve.

All the while he orchestrates
his mandated march in woe,
the Maddening Scar of yore days
rages and gathers itself,
like a coiled spring wrought from stone,
and pleads with the planet to
return its denizens to home.
Spewing fault lines form and spread
about its wide perimeter
and the essence of the Scar
begins to pour into the sky.
Like its Vulmandr children,
the Scar now burns the atmosphere.
Those who've occupied it, flee.

Ill with the plight of their homeland,
the divided clan revolts;
suffer as they will at the hands
of those who now possess them.
Caught between State and Tradition,
Levesque is sought, battered and
sent to a solitary grove
where few disturbances reach.

The Maddening Scar, having wept
for its colonies before,
aligns itself and releases,
surging its anger to coasts
once unknown to it long before.
Distant Levesque, his ears perk -
the call of his true home is heard:

he escapes, and then, departs.

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The Tamping of the Vulmandr

Yield to they, the Vulmandr:
the fiery rain upon worlds.

Nestled be these war machines,
born as keen blades made marrow and
flesh, in their Maddening Scar.
Fed by wide-scattered surpluses,
their momentum built on strife;
the wagging lips on elected
oracles and emperors
made slick by the spoils of war.

These, the tortured Vulmandr:
men, or non-men, with might threaded
into every sinew
that binds each finger to their hearts,
remain a subject of awe
to we few that had held witness
to their duplicitous raze:
cast down from sky, burnt free of air;
they envelope, immolate
and suffocate those in their wake:
poor laymen roiled by faith,
yet sadly doomed from the start.

But from infancy they've stood;
from discovery they've ravaged
and been a decisive force
in all matters, civil or not,
until this: an alliance
formed by those left firm underfoot
and floundering under siege.
A coiled fist of allegiance,
made taut and unfeeling by
generations of oppression
and tributes taken in greed,
is driven through the country's throat.

The gibbering heads of state,
teeth chattered and drool run afoul
of the mouth, plead and grovel
at archaic shrines made holy
once more by necessity.
But when their white icons collapse,
so, too, do they leap and fall
behind marching lines and units,
placed as an infernal shield.
The mighty Vulmandr hold true
and exhale broadening sheets
of devastation; all in vain.

Once thought of as eternal -
their empire, a beacon placed
by time immemorial
among stars atop their bright peaks -
felled swift by those they once saw
as detritus bred for conquest.
In their burning capital,
the poorest Vulmandr lay slain
while their survivors tarry,
wounded deep and awash in blood,
as those held aloft by pact
quickly devolve into debate.

What of they, the dreaded, dear,
furious Vulmandr, now lost
and without kingdom to cull?
To which powers will they be dealt?
To what ends will they be launched?
What of populations who kneel
to this influence they've known?
What semblance will they have of home?

Weep for they, the Vulmandr:
downtrodden tools, now changing hands.
A family of fragments,
scattered, and forced to war with kin;

the hell they produce: a cry.

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Lingerer of Edifice Rock

So spake the Lingerer of Edifice Rock:
"I will inhabit and withdraw light from the cur."
Sent descending upon his mineral palace
were bioluminescent crones imbued
with the will and capability to suffer,
and in turn, expel suffering to others
through pulsing, convulsing strobes.
Frightened and excited by their swell,
they felled themselves to favor on
the Lingerer's behalf, dropping to
his jawline like fireflies drawn
by an abominable source.
Imbibing, he declared nothing
and napped away in dim, fluttering twilight
cast by his open mouth in mid-snore;
his breath smelled faintly of sand.

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Doctor Montion Maynard and the Experiment

There stood Monolith,
just past Erie's Backbone and beyond;
its grip tightened upon the farmland and
drew from it curiosities and profit.
Freedom withstood
in the Flatlands at large and on,
but it was a clear threat perceived and
worried over at nearly every post.

There in high towers
made of white iron and colored glass,
a good doctor had stood and heard words
spoken by wise men with a wealth of strange ideas.
They said he was needed
in order to understand the mind of a boy,
eligible and elected for a kind of experiment;
its purpose at large left muddled to him.
Doctor Montion Maynard,
among colleagues and friends who
had recommended he, the faithful shrink,
buckled to the needs of such an endeavor.

Little time was taken
to truly get to know the captive boy,
as we all suspected he was temporary.
Such ambition often leads to unintentional harm.
But as he was devoured by the light,
we all sought to steal a glance from another,
hoping to find blame to cast or reassurance
from anyone beyond the crazed voice in our minds.
All machines then lived,
and then fell silent after belching smoke or flame.
The dripping echoed voice had ceased,
and we felt our stable grip return to us.

The room was emptied,
burned and sealed behind wide metal doors.
Smells of scorching plastics rose through halls
and forced us to evacuate entirely.
Distant, flickering cries
could be heard for many days afterwards,
and the feeling of static was always abundant
when near the place where Daniel had gone.

They spoke of the Theorized Space;
had claimed it able to be sought and found
and probed as if a place on Earth,
but with no rules and no limitations.
Most suspected Daniel dead,
but some insist on claiming grand success,
"Of course he's gone to the other side!
There wasn't a trace of him left to discover!"

The good doctor wept,
and now slumps to the floor often,
unsure of noise that wakes him in the evening;
it often drips as if submerged in the sea.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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The Theorized Space

We gathered our intelligence and ran
with suggestion upon suggestion, turning
to the darkest depths of our collective
imagination, hoping to come upon
some other-worldly presence that
would prove beyond the shadow of doubt
the worth of us and our capabilities.

We composed a house of broad equation
that delved into sightless and soundless waves
of possibility, intangibles that become tangible,
and lucid prescience in the face of the blind.
Our experiments grew wilder with each
exhausted resource that left our disposal.
We refused the climbing unease within
that left us desperate for a result and
an answer with which to ease our pained
curiosity and our standards to which we're held.
Suddenly, as if by accident or fate itself,
we had come upon the Theorized Space,
and sought immediate access to its answers.

Within the Space we couldn't probe -
beyond man's eye the static dark
would flex and bend and wield itself
as a force of unaware allegiance
to the possible and the unknown.
And so we stood and silence fell on
every man and woman present as
the only clear course of action
became apparent to we who dreamt.

With the stature of a morgue's man carried,
we did what those of insight must:
we spread and searched and came upon
a lonesome wretch whom none would miss.
And strapped him in we did well fit
to a machine that we'd hope could stand between
the worlds of which we knew and uncovered,
ignoring his stammered cries and pleas.
His words were choked by flying volts
that found a home beneath his skin and cells,
scrambling him, his very being to
something beyond what we'd suspected.
Light devoured the room we had taken
and became something of a tomb for this
boy and his humanity, for as the bright
subsided, he had gone from us here,
and had become something far beyond
what we were able to comprehend,
or even control in the slightest sense.

We struggle to observe this young man,
this Daniel that moves between phases
and submits to nothing and no one that
could utter a word towards his understanding.
And as he prevails against reality's norms,
we'll fight to deny our hands in the matter of
such delicacy and such implications;
with which while had, could cease our endeavors
for the rest our lives.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

You are a bad, bad man Dr. Maynard.

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Batter Mansley

A step ahead of his drunken hoard,
with toting guns and carry-ons;
a walking slab of swatted meat,
all scars and snuff and alcohol.
There is no time for the walking man,
with a loud and bellowed chain of command,
to sit at ease for a length of time
which could be used to raze a hollow.
A favored sound, the clink of coin
and the fragrant boom of lichen powder;
he finds his center upon the field
where many lay - where blood may harden.
His soul is chained and tethered to
a link upon his neck. Whereas he
had sold it off, he draws it back
and sees that his profit is entirely his own.
For all the women of the land,
he sees no reason for a pause,
and for every weak and fragile man,
he sees a boot atop their skulls.
An independent contractor -
a deviant through sin and shrapnel -
a man named Batter Mansley,
who will come calling, for a price.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I love coming up with character names.

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Pan Lake

And there it is, across the glass

The body of blue I'm returning to

And I'll be down, so soon at last

Just as clouds obscure the view


My feet are bare, and I arrive

To step into the frigid cold

Grey dictates, over sky

Powdering the land below


I saw what stood, between my touch

And the sand that sought it out

But at its height, it wasn't much

I thought I might just set about


The blizzard wailed, the white prevailed

The hill began to grow like mad

And when I tried to ascend the rise

I'd only slide back down again


I'd get so far, spotting the waves

Dragged back below by nothing I saw

Try it once more, only the same

Never arrive and never find shore


My ragged soles, dug through the snow

I hung my head, opened an eye

And I caught sight, the hill exposed

Beneath my toes the hill was a lie!


A yellow pale, slick to the touch

That acts as grease to send you slope

Delicious yes, this butter was

And as you note, down you'll go


It was delicious butter, yeah

A piece of beach that coated in

It was delicious butter, and

It teaches you to re-begin


The snow began to fall and then

The butter froze to still mirage

But still the slide would do you in

Because the ice had done its job


And you will find, it's hard to breathe

The tide itself will taunt your pleas

Until you've fallen to your knees

And settled back to the beneath.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

“You are walking towards the Lake. It’s snowing very very hard. and you are getting closer and closer but you never arrive because you are walking up a hill covered with butter delicious butter. This should be used for lyrics.”

- Ted K.

A friend of mine gave me a concept for poetry upon request, and this is the result. I like it.

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