There is no bright afterlife with grace and holiness only transmogrification through pain and torture as humans become parasitic spirits who lure others into torment. There is no way to reach out to those we care for only broad-axe slashes that leave gaping wounds. "BLOODLAND TALES shimmers with the decadent imagery that Clark Ashton Smith conjured so easily, and in these opalescent prose-poems Hewitt both acknowledges his debt to "Klarkash-Ton" and progresses even further into a darkness-drenched universe without redemption, mercy, or salvation. And terrified, for Hewitt sings not of arm-in-arm brotherhood and cozy lovingkindness, but rather of Yeats's "blood-dimmed tide," an aeon drenched in gore-bespattered corpses and unrelenting pain for the pitiable humans left alive. Ecstatic, for Hewitt himself truly resonates with the daemonic muse, a voice that echoes from the depths of Tartarus and beckons forth, by turn, angels, devils, monsters, and gods. You should feel both ecstatic and terrified that our age has elicited M. "Each age calls forth its own prophet, a poetic oracle who sees past the heavy drapery we call "the world" to the prime reality that lies beyond.
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