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"The name she passed under when I met her was Helen Vaughan, but what her real name was I can't say. I don't think she had a name. No, no, not in that sense. Only human beings have names, Villiers; I can't say anymore."

Arthur Machen, The Great God Pan

Face the Hydra

Oh what Great God was her source?
Oh what great crime was her cause?
A hazy cloud of shattered, splinter'd mirror glass
An eldritch horror filter'd down from long-dead stars.

Lacking form yet manifest
Craving lust may never rest
Crawling through the mazes of the city nights
A harbinger of nameless outside sounds and sights

Face the hydra, kiss her writhing wrist
The hideous hydra, she's million-faced, the mist.

Knows not right and knows not wrong
An Otherness, not to belong
Dozens charmed and struck down by her blazing glance
City orbits in a suicidal trance

Touched the hydra, the abyss had them kissed
The hideous hydra, she's million-faced, the mist.

The spider-thing theat feeds upon the pleasure of their pain—
Another one to prey upon as formers go insane.
The horrors of the chasm hide behind that lashed smile;
It drains them to their last will as it outstays each their while.

Early wounds become a gate—
An inner taint that craves a mate.
An Outer one was drawn by Similarities
Bloated by her thousand young in cavities.

Mother hydra, the beast one can't resist
The hideous hydra, she's million-faced, the mist.

The hideous hydra! A taint that's widely spread!
The mother hydra! A million monsters bred!


The Gates of Winter >


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