Deep Dark Dunkernickle

[Wes Dirth]

Deep Dark Dunkernickle
is the title of the poem from my book titled
The Darker Side of Dreaming
© 2005

The bowley Blunderplatz churns a boil of thoughtful scorns
Eyes of maidens roll in froth, impaled, by unicorn horns
He dips his dreadlock strands in straight
To make a brew to be the perfect bait

Into human nature he wandered for a place to set a trap
Baited with the start of something placed in a simple wrap
The allure of a mystery does entice a person well
One by one they came too near, and one by one they fell
He’d haul them off down to his dungeon and put them in a cell
And give to them a habitual dose of his experimental

Dip in a drop of pale worm’s sauce
Add the essence of psychedelic
This little, twisted Redboot mixes
Counting revolutions by the sixes
The liquid foam snakes into an “SSss”
For the single sin you’d unconfess
To repeat the favorite way that you transgress

While Blunderplatz awaited a name to give his foul concoction
He kept on adding parts and pieces until he declared it body-toxin

And intoxicate it would, but its first name did not stick
He would not name it for its pleasurable side-affect, before it made them sick
It became a craving for his captives to invite the pleasure of malefaction
And he found many different chemistries seemed to yield the same attraction

“Hurrah, hooray”, the little Redboot chortled, dancing ‘round the cauldron’s fire
Chanting a song, as he circled in bounds, its words were laced with ire:


“Today I fix, tonight I mix
Soon they will be mine
So happy am I that they can’t see
An evil plan in what they pine

Yay! It makes the skin boil
And hypertension makes muscles toil
Horray! It leaves the mind asunder
Without spells or incantations to blunder
And it leaves the body lush
Longing for the next rush”


One by one he released the people -- he knew they would return
And return they did, and they brought others, to sample what they’d yearn

He thought about naming his brew simply ‘infection’
But that didn’t explain the allure of its malperfection

So he still had no name for the sorrow
That was subtle today, but plagued tomorrow
He had no name for sin’s own juice
A curse with no name had been produced

What to term this mysterious tolerance for pain
Where immediate gratification is the only fleeting gain
Causing more and more desire, with less and less to fill
Pushing the lines of tolerance, doing Blunderplatz’s will

Blunderplatz never did decide upon the perfect diction
Because the toxin could be made from so many an addition
And this is the story of how Blunderplatz stumbled on addiction


-Shaddow (Wes Dirth)