At times I find a hideous rapture here
A hiss, a synthesis of malignity
Even in the wee small hours
The silence of the scythe
Cannot disguise
The grim reaping.

It is so much the place but more
The dusk and twilight, the narrow streets
My own inverted soul embracing
Some terrible beauty deep within
A reptilian indifference
A resonance of ancient horrors.

Once half pissed alone
I felt possessed by something
A gross transcendence of space and time
Manifest by a palpitation of old stones
A quivering then shivering of shadows
Dissembling; pulping the marrow in my bones
Until I knew for sure, that evil was not just a word
But something that was part of me.

John Stocks