Eye Of The Magister
Eye Of The Magister

I had known of the demon for some time… although I never thought much about it one way or the other. It was one of those things you see from afar, like a mountain, not realizing the immensity of what it is up close. So, it was with this demon. I had dealt with many of their kind, in fact I’d lived among them at one point in my current existence. Most are exactly what they seem, not that hard to work with once you understand their basic lack of any sort of integrity, accountability, or responsibility. Although, to be fair, they have excessive virtue as long as it has consequence. I befriended an old imp once that was on a journey of ten-thousand years, to bury the carcass of a whelp. The imp was unshakable in it’s resolve to find the burial ground, and only when enough time had flowed would it find its objective. When I inquired why it showed such a steadfast adherence to its task, when so much of demonkind revels in misdirection, lies, and a complete lack of accountability, it answered simply, “break this promise, forfeit my dream….” Dreams are a big deal to most demons….

I wonder, as I look upon the immensity of the great demon before me, huge slabs of stinking flesh, rotten and sloughing off with every movement, the whole thing alive with myriad other entities just below the surface of its “flesh,’ what dream does it hold dear…? What “consequence” would such as the Magister Of Filth honor? Quite a quandary as I really needed one of its eyes…. That’s not as momentous as it sounds, the demon in question has several, and it can more or less create new ones at will, so it’s not like I’d be taking anything of real value with respect to its “eyesight.” That said, regardless of the lack of value one eye has to this behemoth, the value of this ocular trifle is great to me, it is necessary to see the pitfalls along the Path Of Least Resistance, a path I must trod within a fortnight. Should the Magister Of Filth surmise this, no doubt its price for the bauble would be high.

I posit to be sublime, to speak with two tongues is no simple task. In a song I sing of the depravities dreamed, were I only to look with an eye that could see. Into the dark cesspools filled with fecund mysteries I might wade, could I but see through an eye in which such things gleamed. Soft putrescent glows wafting across my sickly vision, wasting their glorious scent on mere human ocular tissues. My mind is suddenly awash with ochre color grinding against my nerves in a cacophony of sickly shapes. I see! I see!! I see…. and I dream.


The Wyrm descends....
The Wyrm descends….

The skies boil as their fires scorch the air. Rarely visible save to those who shall see no more, you can sometimes catch a glimpse from afar, a curved sinuous plume, or a long neck stretching into the sky… But today you can see them everywhere, they are restless, perhaps hungry, or maybe it is as they say in ancient tomes of forgotten knowledge and they are again migrating. A pang sits solidly in my belly that I never knew of a time without these creatures, even though as a youth the air was breathable, even refreshing, and nearly all lived above ground… but that was long ago, and today we hide from the dark smoke, the burning skies, and the acrid air.

We were listless, apathetic, and even though we saw it coming we did not understand the implications of the Great Migration… we were so secure in our knowledge, in our superiority and arrogance, and so we watched in disbelief as the world we knew, the world that old dreams had been built on, crumbled. Assumptions of weaknesses were dashed and exposed for the gross underestimation that they were. We had roused a great force, one we saw, but never believed was coming, even while watching its slavering jaws consume everything in it’s path. At last, sitting amongst the ruins of a world devastated by ignorance and disbelief we learned the cold reality of what we had allowed to happen, and worse, what we had done.

It would take us years to come back from that brink of near annihilation, years of desperate struggle, years of bitter battles fought as much with ourselves as our adversaries, to finally begin to venture forth again, to learn how to live again in this new milieu… and we did… It is a new world, to be sure, one which we helped to create, we helped to define, and for better or worse, a world we must adapt to or die. Even now, our kind infiltrate the lairs of the Others, we have become so much like them, nearly identical except for the fear… And we fear aplenty… but as we lay down amongst them, as we lay with them, we hope the offspring of our union might usurp the throne of ignorance we have built, to become the Children of the Wyrm….

The coming decay.... becoming....
The coming decay…. becoming….

I looked at this and I saw so many things… I could feel the desolation, the abandonment of this place, these things. Yet, here I stood, caught by these shapes of decay, the scent of dust and musty decay heavy in my nostrils. There are some pangs hidden deep inside, in a place I think we all try to keep from ourselves, that one day I will be like this… unrecognizable as what I once was, mouldering in my existence, unable to stop the degeneration that comes, in one way or another, to us all. If I take a moment, I already know this to be true, and my thought and eye turns briefly toward the Sun, sometimes my nemesis but generally necessary for my continued existence, and I ruminate that once I was there, churning in fires hotter than any hell ever imagined, roaring with a life I can barely comprehend now… There I once was, and now I am here, a degenerate human, spawned and grown to what I am on this chunk of detritus, spun off by the Sun that no longer needed either us…. And in my “degeneration,” in my fall from the graces of the burning fires of the mother star, I have come to be this, aware, and fantastic, full of ideas, questions, and possibilities. Full of possibilities.

And so as I decay, so I become, different, yes, but ever changing, becoming beauty and horror, life and death, before and after, awash in the possibilities of being, even in decay… I wonder if the Sun misses us, or perhaps the Sun thinks no more of us than we do of defecation, and perhaps to think of the Sun as thinking in any way that our small minds might comprehend is the ultimate folly of this decaying mind. I shall let my thoughts moulder elsewhere for now…..

We are all products of the seed, be it thought, chaos, or copulation. So it is with the mind, to be forever, planted, cultivated, harvested, and sown anew on virgin soils. That which we became was spawned by such, and in time, we will spawn other selves.

The wriggling in your mind is the truth of being, the seed germinating within the fertile soil of the subconscious. In time, some of the mind’s seeds will find their way to other minds. The other minds may be of wonderful and bizarre new soils. From these alien soils the seed will draw forth nutrients that will stamp their unique mark upon the emerging
mind within….

Sound is a language of magick, a means of communication that can reach beyond ethnic boundaries and common perception. The effect of sound can be physical, intellectual, soulful, and emotional. Though perhaps, sound cannot be defined by words that are unable to convey the depth and breadth of meaning one encounters while drifting across seas of aural ecstasy. Mindspawn seeks to sail these seas to new horizons, explore sonic depths, and attempts to communicate the variate tongues of the soul. As a listener of Mindspawn’s sound, you complete the cycle. The act of listening is a very personal experience, as personal as the creation of the sound. Listening is also the greatest compliment that one can pay an artist. Mindspawn strives to make the experience of listening worthwhile, meaningful, and a path to discover doorways that touch the flux of the netherworlds and the lands of mystics.

Churning of the Mad God
Churning of the Mad God

Darkness Weaves

In realms beyond the Light,
Past the blackest pit of Absolution,
The Dark Ones gather in madness,
And between Them, Darkness weaves.

No shade of sin can be so many hued,
As the Darkness of the Deep,
Forever shrouded in shifting lightless space,
Beyond the places where Darkness weaves.

There are no features, there are no facades of order,
All is the same and not,
An Orbis for the Blind Seeker,
Who journeys where Darkness weaves.

All along the path in colourless envy they stride,
All arrayed in multi-hued costumes,
Spun by the churning of the Mad God,
Who with Darkness weaves….

– the mad poet horstung

– inspired by and adapted from a poem and the fantastic story of the same name by Karl Edward Wagner