Sunday, March 1, 2026

Grim Peat-Bog Devil

Grim Peat-Bog Devil
© Surazeus
2026 03 01

When grim peat-bog devil with fox-red hair 
crawls from black clay-ensouled mud of the marsh, 
Seamus welcomes her with bottle of rum, 
drapes silk cloak over her shoulders with care, 
and leads her to lit auditorium 
where he plays jester to her regal queenship. 

Since I am neither god nor ghost at birth, 
I wander virtual city of your tales 
with jeweled eyes of understanding rage 
that see through masks the most powerful wear 
as they condemn outsiders from their club 
to slave in factories of clanking steel. 

Purring ghosts of love rise with burning blood 
from machinery of language that twists tongues 
with rogue substitutions of natural law 
when strong men fearful of obsessive death 
hunt to kill wanderers in misty woods 
who stumble and scream in anguish of hope. 

Heart hardened against cruelty of life, 
I snarl insults at monsters of despair, 
detained by performative callousness 
when I suppress compassion for frail life 
that struggles weakly against stronger force 
to evade degradation of the soul. 

Unversed in country matters of field life, 
I mold sunset glow into bricks of faith 
to build safe haven in dark tangled woods 
with chimney that channels smoke of our prayers 
to heaven where Faceless God of old tales 
ignores desperate hope for the Afterlife. 

Through fractured window of my wordless heart 
crows swoop on devil wings of honesty 
to bring purple-brain mushrooms from boglands 
which I eat soaked in honey of respect 
till I become coiled rainbow of brave angst 
howling with wild wolves in the twilight zone. 

Since we dwell in troubled ambivalence, 
uncommitted to mindless creeds of church, 
we explore uncanny landscape of ghouls 
wearing human faces that grin with lies, 
malnourished from harshness of eager hope 
which calculates effective cause to perform. 

If I am born from mind-controlling force 
and squirm squalling into hands of regret, 
first mother of gloom cries to feed me milk 
as prideful authority hurls my soul 
back into vast illegitimate sea 
where I morph into Mermaid Bride of Christ. 



1 comment:

  1. Orpheus and Seamus drink beer in the pub, then sing old folk songs about the ancient bog people who ran wild as wolves in misty woods.

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