But someone, too, must sell the magic beans
Must sing a doom glissando when the Banshee calls in sick,
Must know the wire to pluck
when a time machine needs breaking,
and how to osmose secrets
into a dreamer’s head.
Listen closely to the wind
and you’ll hear voices.
That’s not a coincidence;
do you know how long it takes
to bind ghosts and elementals and
assorted spirits to the Earth
simply for the purpose
of sending you
cryptic
ill-tidings?
the recruitment process alone
takes
decades;
so many of the Dead
prefer Hell
these days
to Earth.
* * *
It’s not so easy
to crouch in flame
and crackle visions
of never-cities, not so simple
to wait beyond the sky
carrying a bag full of legends.
The last day we took off
was the fall of
Atlantis; we were hoping
no-one would notice,
but they did,
and it hurt,
and we were reincarnated,
over hundreds of years
as wicked stepmothers
beyond counting
and the occasional
doomed
High Priest.
we tamper with
coincidence
because otherwise
you would see it everywhere,
accept it as the norm,
and recognize too easily
that all things
are interconnected.
Drop a silver dollar
this morning,
stoop to pick up
a silver dollar
tonight
and a bullet
misses
you
by
inches.
You think
the world is
a story,
and that stories
make worlds
because stories
add flavor to your soul;
not metaphorically, we mean
the kind of bone-suckin’
meaty taste
you can’t replicate
with the vegetative life
of the imaginationless.
Once there was a world
where we let
all that which would happen
simply happen.
Cause didn’t tumble
into effect,
correlation
and causation
could be observed only
if you looked real close,
and no tales were told
and to make a long
story short
their souls
withered
into wrinkled, dried-out,
blackened,
sad little
husks
no
good
for
eating.
But your souls,
your souls have been fed
on stories,
and they are sweetmeats,
they are manna,
they are succulent,
they are heavenly.
So don’t
stop
believin’
or your souls
will
taste
terrible.
Sure, this means
that some of you
escape.
Stories are wings,
are anti-gravity,
are lightning,
are a shock to the system.
they set you
alight
and in that moment
of unity
with Word and Idea,
you can see
everything
including Us.
and you think,
perhaps,
your soul,
silly as it is
might look better
inside of you
than inside of us.
Don’t worry.
We have years
to persuade you
otherwise; simply
years.
Long time gone,
the Devil wanted
your soul
for some kind of
deal he struck
with the Big Sparkle.
But now,
he plays ball,
we’ve got his soul
under wraps
although sometimes
we suspect
he may
decide
to rebel.
Know how he does
that?
Same as always;
tells
stories.
that’s why
so many
ideas
are so
good,
and we’d stop him,
only,
we’re a bit addicted
to the
taste.
(I mean,
not really,
we can quit
any
time
we
want.
Honest.)
It’s hard,
being a Talesender
(you should know this,
little spinner-of-tales).
Sometimes it feels
like every trap
we set
ends up being
fuel,
every victory for us
is half a loss,
waking you up
striking fire in the skull.
But that’s probably
not
true.
We hope that’s
not
true.
Don’t think
too hard
about it;
just
slide
through
life
and you’ll be
in good
hands
or whatever
it is
we use
in place of hands.
tell no stories
make no tales
have no soul
and never, ever
ask
“But why?”.
_____________
The Dark Lord Jeff Mach is ruler of the realm of Evil Expo, happening this January (and every January) in Piscataway, New Jersey; you should go. I wrote a philosophical, darkly satirical fantasy novel, told from the point of view of The Dark Lord; you can check it out here.
