A Dream, Bizarre

Warning: Graphic content involved.

Windfalls when night falls
Caused the elder leaves to shake,
Trembled by their oaken limbs;
Their pitter-pat on window flat
Still haunts my stoic soul.

I
The Clock


Its is dark… it is night. The frightfulness of the thunderstorm outside pales my already bloodless face. It can see every raindrop as they splatter, as they fall, a thousand little lives smashed ‘gainst my windowpane: each one of them a coup de grace to my soul. I know everything will be fine, so long as it rains. It’s the thunderclaps on hazy autumn nights that frighten me. Afraid I may be, but never scared; I could not allow myself the pleasure of the latter—it is one that could only be indulged by one stronger then me.
Another thunderclap is coming, another drain of life from my clammy face. The rain is beating harder now, can you hear it? Perhaps if you opened the window more then you would know. It is so hot outside, even with the rain. This morning little drops of sweat greeted my cheeks. Which is better: sleepless nights of rain, or fogs of sweat in the morning? None, I suppose… but perhaps, a combination of both tonight.
I will not sleep tonight; I don’t think my mind would let me. Long hours I have already sat waiting in my bed sheets, but to no avail. The elusive sprite of sleep has yet again managed to haunt me.

With her long and wispy trails
Held fast in child’s tales.

There is one thing that offers me solstice in nights such as these. The dark-hued, clock that stands parallel to my bed’s foot. Its hands reach out from me towards the glass, its ticking tells of nights that passed, of nights that would soon come again. I stared at it and it stared back at me, its wood sprung hard as the hickory tree. It was a good tree that bore it, a strong Hickory branch that reached high beyond those of its neighbors. Now it stands silently within my room, a captive unto my delight.
Yet still, it reaches for me—reaches for my soul sometimes, I fear. Its hands are harder now then ever before it was a tree: their as metallurgic spheres encased in time. Encased in time, yet ever not—its hands commune hourly with the great father of its machination. Every communing is a bitter laugh thrown fast at my restless soul.

Tick-tock tick tock—
Further into line,
Click clock, nick nock—
With every devilish chime.

Pitter patter,
Splitter splatter,
Now far more than then;
Pitter patter,
Bitter banter,
I shall not sleep again.

II
The Turning of the Hands


The hard metal of your hands
Meshes the flesh of my heart:
Cold syllables ever fresh,
Which undertones awaken.
They shiver me, embitter me
For they hark unto my terror,
Each tick a resounding mocking
Of our lives that end too soon.
Each hand moves in symmetry
With its brother, a mystery:
That each hand wrought its separate path
From its twin—one fast, one slow
Yet both the same in its design.

Oh, that I were a clock, never
Made of a fallow flesh and bone;
That I could dictate reign of men,
As mine watches above me now.
And, as I watch it, it stares back
Its glare a flare unto my face:
Each hollow tick of witchcraft knells,
Heralds of wicked alchemy.
The glass before it separates
As I hear its tick, and it glows;
The crystal swirls, as if surreal
(With force projected, I can feel
Its pattern twisting as it slows.)

Alchemists, lend me your stylus
I’ve seen the magic of us men!
The crystal seas of terror wash
As I commit to pen my gaze,
(The herald of our summer days
Would choke if he saw as I see.)
The hands of steel become as glass,
And glass is made as water flows
So freely amongst riverbeds—
Could there be found a sight more strange?
A liquid held in limpid air,
Suspended by its alchemy—
Yet constant turning, aridly.

What was that—a split-splat upon my bedchamber window? Ah no, it could not be, the rain has ended now. Then where comes the intense veiling above my mind? From the clock, those dreaded hands—spinning, they have warped before me. The night is quiet now, so silent it is nearly thundering; and is lost in a haze as blurry as the sight that is unfolding now. Unfolding, enfolding: the folding of all sights are forgotten one hundred times over compared to this.
As it turns and morphs before me, there is something within that I have never seen outside of a dream. Flashing images of green pastures within the clock, behind the level glass-pane: banana trees and cockatoos that stand beyond these and, afar, the heights of distant mountaintops. Snow covers the peaks and touches the sky with pales of pink, and mist, and tears of wine are spouted forth from the swiftly waning sun.
While I watch, all around the clock has morphed instead. Now the clock is pure and whole, and my bed and chamber that have been made a vaporous smoke. Like gunpowder spewed forth from cannons, so is now my surroundings. All that stands before me now is the clock, its enchanting hands beckoning me forward in a dance of vigorous enticement.
Then comes the gong and, with it, a bang. Falling, my face strikes my pillow and darkness surrounds me. The world is turning black now—so black that I can nearly taste its voids. My consciousness lessens as the clock strikes its hour hand against the twelve.

Fitfully, I fall asleep.


III
The First Enchantment


Waterfalls of sound surrounded
My body, as I fitfully saw
The being of my soul entwined
By time—this was my doleful dream.

Then all was silent in my sleep,
The haunt of it a crypt to keep.

There is fresh air everywhere, hot and muggy; the swell of it nearly fills my lungs with liquid at every breath I take. There is no sound though: save for the beating of my heart, the rise and fall of my chest as I heave deeply of the air. I can nearly taste it: little beads of dew forming upon my tongue and brow. It is sweat. I can taste it. The salt is so thick I can nearly chew the grits. I do not open my eyes though; if the air itself seems like this I do not know what I would perceive of all that surrounds me.
There are smells too: smells of fresh rain. Yet the ground is drier then a log in winter before it is thrown into the flames. There are the smells of passion fruit, and orchids, and one thousand different Epiphytes, all with their own rich and earthy fragrance.
There are sounds that hedge round about me: euphony and cacophony each mingle with each other to form an entirely new class within themselves. I feel as if I were to reach out towards them, I might catch some of these wispy notes within my hands. Would I be able to feel the gloom of them, I wonder? There would be no way to tell.
And yet I can feel them as they swell, as they dance around me within this humid air, amongst the dewy seas of foliage: a rustle in the grass, a slither between the holes of the canopies, like snakes that sway within the marshland brush. The sounds of these things should be music in itself, I’m certain that they are, within some culture that bores itself caverns within my mind. Would this culture bear the same resemblance to this place that I feel myself within now? I cannot tell for, as of yet, I dare still to not open my eyes. If I were to, I fear that that enchanting spell it holds over me would be broken beyond all usefulness.
But does one need sight to place himself within a true reality? By all means, does not the blind beggar see just as well as we do, though without the same sensations of color and expression? Yes, I say he does. For though unable to peer within these dimensions he lays claim to the throne of the realms of sound, which govern even over that which we see. Is not the eye easily deceived?
Oh, but deceive me no more, dream! The fathoms of chasms hid beneath your oceans are unknown to even one such as me. The azure fogs of your riptides flow more bountifully then the sounds that bear witness upon my soul. What dire needs we have of thee that, standing often before us in our slumbers, resist our memories when the time comes for us to wake. Oh! That I were given the wings of Hermes, that I may fly after thee and capture your bounties before I awake, to lay them before the sights of men. Then…then!—then I would have no need to keep my observations to but sight and smell but would behold you in naked splendor. Then would awake the dawn of the newness of mankind, the scaling of unimaginable heights of depth, and all would then be able to perceive your trickeries.

And worship thee, and worship thee
Beneath the luscious apple tree;
As your sister, Amphitrite,
Debauched my mind with each delight.

And so, I will open my eyes, to see what I must see.


IV
The Second Enchantment


I have watched the flickering fire-falls of my ancestors. Each flame that has reached high into the starlit domes of the northern skies have likewise lit their candles upon my soul. I have feasted upon the carcass of my fallen enemies as the darkness has lingered into day; I have quaffed the mead from the many skulls of my victories.
I am the pagan that sits upon the silent edge of the world. Oh yes, it is silent. I have been there. I have sat upon it. I have dangled my limbs out into the lustrous morn. There is naught there that speak; naught there that even breathe. To do so would be the defiling of purity. To do so would destroy what beauty there has been left to us within the world.
I have sat within the world but, still of yet, have hated it. The hate boils up within my very marrow and consumes my bones within me. I have hated all that look upon me as I dance naked with the starlight. I have hated those that dare to search inside the maggot burrows of my soul…

I have hated men most of all…

Yes, men—nasty blood-ridden men. Men that dare to assume that they have the rights to sovereignty over me, men that presume that they alone are the masters of the soul. To dominate the individual is to put to death what remains of humanity—dominate yourself if you will, I shall escape from you. Up…far into the mountain holes I will climb. Dare you to try and catch me? My stalwart spear shall gut your bellies!
Ignorant—ignorant all of you! Ignorant of what makes a man feel, of what defines humanity. You believe that you hold sway over me? Ha-ha-ha! I laugh at you and will dance all the more wildly because of your impudence. Watch my phallus slap against my thighs, till it is sore with rubbing. My teeth shall break beneath the bones of your ancestors; my eyes will drip with the blood that you have once denied me. Yes, watch me in my debauchery—I will drink of the dreaded Absinthe and still will not be touched accordingly. Watch all you men of society—poor, useless, ignorant society. Watch you kings and rulers, watch you men of science and theology, watch you makers of all moral divinations and social calamities.
Bastards! Bastards and Whores the lot of you! For a mess of pottage you would sell your soul to that which you most fear—and for what: for the filling of your belly. A knife to your belly and watch your dancing gut fall before your feet. Dance, dance, dance—fuck, fuck, fuck. Lift your cups high and I shall fill them with fire and morphine. Lift your voices up into the air and weep, for the pagan will not be satisfied.
I have not been satisfied by the burning brightness of the moon. I have run with the devil-wolves of my ancestors and have filled my bellies with the flesh of both beast and virgin. I have not found solace in the cold water that fills my face, or in the hot liquors that consume my body.
To religion may go the Devil, the wise goat himself, and still man would not be satisfied. Whether I be pagan alone, or a upstanding man of virtue, why should I be none the different? Society hates what it cannot understand and mankind loathes what it cannot contain. I cease to understand myself, and yet, I despise what I have become. What makes a man “upstanding” rather then little more then beast—a mere curvature of the spinal column? Have I not slept the same sleep as they, have I not dreamed? I have wandered to and fro amongst the earth, there are few upon the continent that cannot say they know me. I have eaten food as they—though it is of stranger flesh—but does that matter? To me the social man is evil to eat the flesh of beasts, just as I to them to eat of other meats.
Fight, fight, fight—die, bleed, drown. Life has found no meaning to me and so I have thrown myself at the mercy of the bayonet. Stab me once, stab me till your arm cleaves off—it does not matter to me. I have drowned in my own bile since the day I have been born—oh sick and disparaging man. I have loathed you and your children as they have loathed me and I have forgiven naught, for I follow not your vile ways. Love and virtue, freedom and mercy: that which you say you uphold you have murdered in your ignorant stupidity. So cleave me again, vile nigger-man! In death I will drink my own blood in defiance of your savage barbaric state.


V
The Third Enchantment


I have seen heroes gone before
Through woes and perils past,
To etch their face in history lore
And hope that it would last.

I’ve seen men walking bravely through
Myriads of flood and flame,
Only to find that naught was new
And do it once again.

And the heavens have drunk sulfur
And bled with leprous eyes
While tears form drops of water
Men drink, and thus, despise.


Oh for yet another enchantment! Now all has been lost from me. The clock has now begun to tick at last, and all that I have heard or seen is now lost from me. I sit now within a cave—dear travelers! No cavern dug by the brutish hands of the great Cyclops himself could compare to this. Endless spires cleave straight to the cranium of it: mammoth proportions of earthen delights. The spires are all the teeth of a beast, I fear. A giant beast, a monstrous beast; a beast that, from the dawn of time, has slumbered within the stasis pool of the blood of humanity.
What monstrous spires, what heinous sires! Crows have hidden in the secret cavities, their entrance ways hidden behind a sea of bats. There is no sound, there is not even a single breath. Ah me, not a breath—my mouth bleeds moist droplets of quicksilver that drip down around my toes. A forest could be contained in here—one or one hundred and it would matter not—the great vastness of it all would swallow these and still not be slightly filled unto the smallest mouthful.
Were the moon here she would shirk in shame, the clouds would gather their skirts in shame. The drops that fall forth from those stalactites seem that they could contain the South China Sea. Hot blasts of air heat my face. My mind is trapped in a whirl of stillness, of silence, the flesh of stone swirls round and round about me.

Solid and solemn,
Sad yet astute,
The mistress of silence plays
Upon a lute.
And spirits rise afore my eyes
Far too vast to count,
Their wispy hails of bodies quail,
Shirking round about.

Is it a mist I have seen, is it a fog? Never could it be. It feels not wet but sickly warm and moist upon my limbs as it passes by me. I have seen the vast hordes of armies felled, whence I soldiered far into the continent—yet nothing before like this. There are millions there—ah no—that be far too stringy of an estimate. Can a man number the vastness of the sea, or tell of the creatures upon the earth? What they could be in number one could never tell.
They smell of fire and of melancholy: the souls of the endless dead, but dead by what, I cannot discern. I have read of Hades. I have read of Hell. If the accounts of the travelers be true, then this could not be that which all fear to enter whilst they lie upon their beds of passing. I have seen yet through a glass darkly, and yet now face to face! How I wish now that blindness could once again return to me. How I understand and tremble at the light.
Ah me—ah they! What sad, useless sufferings. They are not the dead I see but the spirits of those that are yet alive. They should be dead through, for reason of sufferings. They have not suffered; they have been—in their manner—the suferee. Vile personage you are, oh spirits of commerce and wisdom. What lectures of pain you have visited upon all of humanity. You have slit the throats of Purity, slit the throats of Art. And for what purpose have you done these things—the purpose of your censorship, for the purpose of your money?
Oh insufferable, vile men; that I had done away with you long ago, when thou were still unborn within thy mothers womb. I would have done the world a better end for it, and upon hearing my deeds men would have raised a theatre in my honor. They would have rejoiced then and called me the conqueror of sorrows, the banishment of all needless sufferings. For what is suffering except that a man would wish to overdo his fellows. What greater purpose, therefore, then to place a censor upon the individual, to deny him the right to speak as equally as me or they?
In fear you have done this, oh useless, pitiless souls. Yes, I visit no pity upon you—only hate. Hatred for all that you have done to destroy the mind that has by far exceeded your own; in fear of the bizarre, in fear of the unknown. You have hunted us down and set fire to our faces. You have ripped our children from the womb and have used their blood to oil the hinges of your spectacles. Why do you persecute us, why do you flee? Do you not see that we had loved you once before, that we had tried to set you free?

And a tomato for you
And a tomato for me,
We captured the curb
Of Caribbean Sea.
And we hid in coves that you
Would dare not to find;
Art in man—as lovers two—
Trapped within our mind.


VI
Impressions of Beauty


There have been Colors trapped in here
Before the dawn of time,
Before the spirits last were here,
Before the scheme of rhyme.

I’ve seen the creeping ponds of Blue
That mingle on the floor
With creamy wings of swans that knew
Each signal gone before.

The Yellow frost in fields of corn
Have melt to stones of Green,
That gaze with passion, gaze with scorn
Upon the view, obscene.

And little spoons of childhood
Recall the blooming rose
That spins her Red in soil good,
Her scents invade the nose.

Orange sits on the windowsill
And Orange soon may rot.
For while he sat, so ever still,
A dismal cold he caught.

The muggy bogs are filled with Brown—
A muddy, messy sort—
That taints even a pagans crown
While oft disguised as sport.

And White be bold, and White be pure,
Hear now your lavish bells;
The little girl that carts manure
Lives only ‘cause it sells.

Black is bitter in revival
And terminates the day,
With sounds of dusks sweet survival
A song of nonny-neigh.

And round about the fireplace
Does Violet sing of woe,
Her lilting songs of commonplace
Rise over common throe.

Aqua pillars and Marine glass,
Yet this song too must soon be passed.


VII
Enter the Bizarre


Ferrets carting figs passed by me once, they gave me an odd, angry look then passed straight on by. They gave me a look—not because I looked at them, but because it was that they beheld themselves in me. I shuddered once then to think about it, yet in recollection, it does not seem to dreadful a thing.
The cave has stopped growing, the spirits have abated their movement; now only silence and water flow before me. What is movement—to move ones form from one place to another, a series of well-controlled falls? How much easier it were then that I traveled, not in body, but in mind. Ah, ye!—I see that you have done so too, traveler! Though, I assure, I have trotted around the globe far more often then you. I have seen the banks of the Thames before water had entered their beds. I have seen the monuments of France erected. I have tasted every spice and followed the Sultans of the east on their merry chase of the gold-inlaid gazelle.

I have seen water
Spilling in salty splashes
From the Herons beak.

I have walked the tightrope between the stirrup and the anvil of the Elephants ear. Suffice to say it was small—I have traveled Africa too. I have danced the Congo beats of the savage tribes and waved my imagination as wildly as they do their spear. I have killed each one of their boy-chiefs—every single one of them. With poison and with divination I have burned them and have sucked the marrow from their bones so that I might best understand my enemy. I have thrown clocks at nose of the Sphinx and have broken it. Mummified in a barge, I have watched as my dummy soul has drifted down the Nile.
The vastness of the Amazon could not contain me. I have traveled down every tributary and have seen the villages there. I have drunk the serpent-mead of the natives and have followed them as they hunt the panther. My feet have felt of mud and insect, and scarce have I found a piece of my ankle that has not been a leech. Nesting with the hooting baboon I watched the stars at night while they spoke to me of many things. Things that would dare not even to enter a child’s fantasy.
I have lifted my phallus to the sun and dared its heat to bake me! It has not and, therefore, I have conquered it too. Mars is dead. Saturn has lost her virtue. I have drunk rum and lemonade in May, beneath the shade of a bridge that crosses over the gentle rippling of the brook. Could a place be more wonderful then this, the lovely village where I have grown up, where I shall die? Nay, nothing could, yet in itself—in its tiny succulence—it contains a thousand universal scenes.

Round about the garter
Without a single care;
Carry to the larder—
We’ll finish her from there.

Round about the anus
Of Mother Nature fair,
Child dances blameless—
A blaze of Teddy Bear.

Silverfish have swum in the puddles of my mind since the dawn of time. They run here. They run there. And always they have crept all across and throughout the insides of imagination. What is imagination, but the brilliant gastro of the intellect, a churning lake, wherein ideas are formed?
My mind has burned with fire, with fire and with gossamer since I’ve dreamt. Oh yes, I have dreamt, and my dreams have always fallen to the baser levels of humanity. I have trod the filth of mankind within my hand. I have both ruled over them and wept with the blood of their infirmities. I have seen the naked child weep beside her mother whom, enchanted by narcotics, has become a puddle of vomit. I have kissed the lips of a hunchback and made love to the circus treats.
Men whom, since the dawn of time have been an oddity, I have adored. Let the ordinary be ordinary and die by way of their stuffed fallacies. I shall sleep with the heathen and perform the rites of the infidel. I shall break my bread with Egypt and drink with the followers of Agamemnon. I shall rip the liver from Hector and drink the bile thereof so I may understand what makes man believe that he can defeat gods.

Shall fire condemn me
Shall fear consume?
I sleep in ponds of poison,
Surrounded by stone nectarines.

Light shall pour in all around me. Yes, around me—I can even feel it now; bright lights from the snow-mountains from the north and, with it, the comforting smell of pine. I have tasted honey-wines from the farthest reaches of Persia, I have discovered the delicacies of the unknown islands of the Orient. Thyme and cinnamon lay siege to my senses, I have become intoxicated with passion for living.
The pebble-beaches of Normandy, covered with November fog, do jar my memory. I can hear the sounds of rolling waves slowly beat a drum…gently…gently.
Rock me to sleep, oh boundless eternity, life could never be more desirable then seen beneath of the shade of your beauties. A walrus, with tusks of silver, swims to the shoreline to great me. His wise face bearing the boundless tales of one thousand centuries.
I have sensed the primordial cells within my blood, beckoning to the call of the fire-dance of my ancestors. I know not how, I know not when, yet still the dance does well deep within me. Alas, if all men could feel as I! Ah then would not the world—would not life—be far less wretched then in its existing state. Ah contrast! Ah farce! Life was meant to be enjoyed, not to be wept over. To weep is to live, alas. Let me never again see melancholy. Instead, let me imagine. I give myself over to the sights and smells of insanity. To be sane is but to understand oneself. Therefore, it is the world through the rites of ordinance that are given over to insanity.
Oh, let me sleep—let me live again. I shall be as the child and therefore, make new wisdom. I shall drink the soul of mother earth and become satisfied. I shall embrace the understanding of beauty and, therefore, shall become beauty in itself. Yes, beauty—beauty through the rejection of ordinance, beauty through the rejection of boundary. Only the boundless are notified, it is those that reject the Philistine that are free. Ah, let me release myself into the floodgates of a single thought and I shall exceed immortality. Time and purpose shall have no meaning for me, I shall surpass humanity. And so I shall, I will shut my eyes. Alas!

Let me dream.

Argument on Love

I

On the subject of love I do believe that there has already been too much that has been written, too much that has been said. All whom partake of literary art are guilty of it in some form or another for all write of it whether they wish to or not. Suffice to say though, there are many forms of love: romantic, platonic, friendship, unifying, divine and so on. However, one must admit, that in all of these, too much has been said. To write about love and—in some instances—to even speak of it out loud is a cliché in most levels of society and, as all will know, there are only two in the world that love a cliché—the Ignorant, and the Mule.
However, gentlemen, this is not the reason for which I now write. I do not presume to speak to you of the defining categories of love for, as you well know, it has become mostly a bore these days. I will, however, speak to of love but not in the way that you have thought of. No, good gentlemen, I insist on speaking to you about love but not in the romantic sense, I fact, in no sense whatsoever. I will not speak to you of how to love, or when to love, or what love means to me; rather, I wish tell you singularly of my theories of why no one will ever truly love me.
“But we have heard this all before,” I can almost hear you think. “There have been many that have thought the same words and yet have not been able to hold to them.” Stay, my friends, and let me reason with you. Admittedly, there have been many that have said the same words that I have now stated and, for as many as have said them, that same number have come to prove the falsehood of their teachings. However, there is a simple difference between their arguments and mine in that theirs is based upon emotion and trite character traits such as: ‘Because I am too ugly’ or, ‘Because no one takes an interest in me’ and so on and so forth. It is true, gentlemen, that those who base their arguments upon saying such will, undoubtedly, be proven to love in the end. It is because they are the sort of people whom, subconsciously through their sayings, vie for pity and compassion from the listener’s ear. They say such things when, yet, they inwardly hope for love, long for it—such as the swaddled child longs for the teat in the darkness of the night. It is in both these things that my saying is separate for I do not wish for any compassion from saying these things to you, gentlemen, and I most certainly do not long for love. In fact, if love were to come to me I would purposefully root it out of my very being which is the reason why I speak to you today, not only to tell of one’s incapability to love me but I wish to speak to you of my incapability to love.
“But one’s incapability’s are only brought out because one wishes it subconsciously to be so.” You might say and, truly that is so to some extent. It is true that if one destines for something to be so and desires it with utmost singularity of thought and person that it will happen to be so. Circumstances, dear gentlemen, do not affect one’s outlook on life, regardless of the high level of blame that circumstances are given by today’s modern man. Ever since the dawn of civilization man has always looked to blame something else for its troubles, cast the purpose of its woes upon some hapless insect so it will be the one to blame. Do you try to deny it? You know it is utterly so.
If one will not blame another for his mishaps then he will, most certainly, blame the circumstances that surround him. Therefore, he will be subconsciously placing the guilt upon the person but in a more subtle way. However, circumstances do not dictate ones actions and neither should they be held accountable for one’s outlook upon any given situation. One may be brought into a circumstance that, to him, may seem dreadful and filled with woe but, to the person next to him may fill him most ecstatically. The also is true in reverse for, what might seem as fearful for the second person might be found good in the eyes of the first, and so on. That is why it is impossible for circumstances to, truthfully, be the sole bearer of blame for one’s outlook on things. It is also is on this vicinity that my argument differs from the others for, in truth, good gentlemen, I do not blame circumstances for my outlook stated above. In fact, it may be found to be quite the contrary.
I do not blame my circumstances in any way, good gentlemen, for I would rather blame myself for the way I appear so today. In essence, I hold myself accountable for my every deed, my every word, and therefore, I have come to neglect altogether every sense of circumstance that as of yet surrounded me. So the vase is broken and the sink has overflowed… splendid—most indeed, splendid—I blame no one but myself, and I unswervingly wish it to be so. It is in this essence, this demand of responsibility, which I first base my argument upon: the first reason why I believe myself incapable of love.
Say, for instance, I were to love somebody but then something were to happen that would separate us, perhaps even permanently. Whether it be my fault or not, or whether or not I had any hand in it I would, exclusively, be the one to blame. This would be so because I would make it such or, at the very least, convince myself of it until it was branded in my mind unswervingly. I would force myself to undergo such mental tortures that only I could contrive until, bruised and bleeding, I steal the crown of thorns from off the head of Christ himself and place it upon my own. It would be heavy and I would then exalt the very feeling of it, the taste of my blood would rectify the sting I felt within my soul at the very onset of the separation.
But why would I do these things to myself, you might wonder? Ah, but stay and let me tell you why it is so. In truth, gentlemen, it is a hard saying that I have mentioned and perhaps you doubt my sincerity in stating it as such. In all respects, you have every right to think it to be so. It is true that most men would never dare to place themselves under such flogging for such an undertaking could never be thought of as healthy in any respects. However, one must ask, gentlemen, which is healthier: mental flailing, or blame placed upon circumstances? It must be one of the two. If not the physical and mental torture that I would, most greedily, inflict upon myself I must then turn towards circumstances and there make my accusations. Therefore, my argument would be found to be of no effect, for then I would become as those that speak as such in hopes of attention or rectifying some past wrong or whatnot. However, as I said before I wish not for any of this, only to make myself understood, and that is why I place liability upon my soul, gentlemen, even if it is not mine to place.
Therefore, this is one reason why I would not think myself capable of loving for, if I were to love and then have it come to an end, the culpability of it would be the very tombstone of my soul! For what worse crime is there, gentlemen, then a crime committed against innocent love, love that wishes only to be loved in return and is in this denied? But of course, this reason is a hard reason; a highly questionable reason and it could never be the sole proprietor of my theory. One could safely question why I would not just love in return and, therefore, not have to undergo this aforementioned flailing of my consciousness. It is on this that I wish to speak to you next.

II

I wish to tell you now why I could not even fancy myself to be a worm—in fact, a worm is too high a specimen to compare myself to. A worm in itself is capable of love, even if it be only love in its most base and unrefined form. However, I do not think myself capable of loving another—or even loving myself for that matter—and that is why a worm would be too noble a specimen to compare myself to. Instead, I shall draw comparison to the germ.
The germ is truly a magnificent specimen to compare one’s self to—if a man could ever think of drawing honest comparison to something other then itself. The bacteria is ignorant, not fully knowing of the damage it inflicts upon its host, and above all, cruel in every form. That is why I fancy myself like unto the germ, gentlemen for, in love, I am both of these things. If I ever were to love I do not think myself capable of doing it and, therefore, would willingly profess ignorance upon the very subject that I write to you of. “But then why would you write of it in the first place?” you may ask, but please, allow me to explain.
I would profess ignorance upon the subject of love and relationships out of pure spite. The very spite that causes me to write to you now of love for, in truth, I am embittered to the very thought of it. But not unto mankind, no never unto mankind; all of man’s woe are caused primarily by a sheer lack of genuine philanthropy. I am, however, embittered unto the very thought of love displayed by me, or love given unto me because of my spite.
It is for this reason alone that I would profess ignorance upon the subject and, simultaneously, invoke unintentional hurt to the receiving party because of my feigned ignorance on a subject. I doubt that there are any of you that will honestly suggest that, in order to tell a good lie, the bearer of the tale must not first believe it himself. One must first be firmly grounded in what they believe before they say it and that is why my deceit of ignorance would render me incapable of love.
But why would I lie unto myself and the one I may love in order to have this ignorance? It is because of the embitterment of my spite that I would profess it, for I am very spiteful toward anyone that would love me. This is so because, above all, I am a very cunning man, one far too aware of his own surroundings for his own good. In fact, if one is too aware of his surroundings (inward and outward) he begins to complicate the very building blocks of mans nature which brings about a disorder of misanthropy. Say, for instance, that I am aware of a certain woman liking me. I am too aware of myself to allow this fancying to flourish, too knowledgeable of my own flaws of character to let her fall in love with one such as me. Therefore, because of spite towards her love which makes my character lacks all the more apparent I become embittered towards her for loving me. I deceive myself, and her, and through this ignorance (for all lies are ignorance) recall not love, nor the flaws that I had hitherto seen.
Do you not see how this works, good gentlemen? I do not think myself capable of love or of one loving me because of the flaws in my character it reveals. Therefore, to hide myself from my own consciousness I would root love out of my heart and tell myself (and her) that I had never loved at all. Through this lie, I become incapable of being loved and thence my relation to the proverbial germ!
However, this does not explain as to how I would make the woman believe that I do not love her and neither do I wish to write much on the subject. I can say however, that it would be in an awful way—not cruel, but in an awful way nonetheless. I would push her away, scorn her and then return to her in order to observe her reactions. They would, undoubtedly, be most undesirable, but that could very well be expected. And it is for that very reason why I would resort to such harmful measures, because the outcome would be expected… I would be able to equally foretell of every sum in any given equation—hence my spite!
Yet, if there be one that would not do this—one that, though I push her away, would return to me in more reverence then before—then… then I would consider the possibility of another human being loving me. For is this not love, gentlemen: to return though put out, to rise and embrace though beaten down, to return with a kiss the hand—the very hand—that mauled you? Tell me of a more faithful love, one that could endure all things more then this, gentlemen, and I will henceforth declare this discussion innate and worthless. Declare it not and you only begin to see the reason for my spite, for I do not believe that this love exists in any hemisphere of our world.

III

But yet, this does not explain fully why I would not just accept her love and let it gloss over the very character flaws that her love would make apparent in me. It is of this that I wish to explain to you now, gentlemen, for this is a very pivotal point. Indeed, the easiest of routes would seem by most expectations to be the accepting route, the route that does not question the love that this woman would give to me but, instead, would accept it with gratitude. It is this knowledge, this acceptance in total submission of an all-encompassing love that I am most afraid of. Above all, this is the love that I find myself most incapable to accept.
The reason why I would not be able to accept this love, gentlemen, is found not within my own mind or out of some sense of self-preservation but rather out of the desire to preserve another, to keep another from feeling that flames that love would give to them through me. In this lies the paradox, gentlemen, the utter irony of the saying for through this is found love, in which, I find my duty towards philanthropy fulfilled. It is not love that whishes to be loved in return; therefore, it is not selfish. It is not love that desires the happiness of others but rather the hurt, therefore, it is not pure. Impure, unselfish love, oh irony of ironies unleashed!
Let me explain this to you, gentlemen, for now I can guess that you fancy me to be rather mad or, at the very least, speaking in the maddened tongues of one given over to too much drink. First I shall tell you of how this love is not selfish for it is the most easily discerned of the two.
The reason why this love is not selfish is because simply it does not want to be loved in return. True love, innocent love, wishes to be loved in return by the recipient of the emotion given; therefore, because it wishes something for itself, it is selfish. Pure unselfishness is giving without wishing anything in return and, though some attest to innocent love being the same way, it is not so. All forms of innocent love wish for something else in return for the emotion they give, even if they merely think it. Actions speak louder then words—it is true—but thoughts are the only place where anything is possible, where dreams and surreal images can easily take on reality. Therefore, the very thought of desiring something in return is selfish in its entirety.
Safely though, I can say that this “love” I speak of is not selfish for it desires the exact opposite from its proponent. It does not want anything in return; in fact, it does not accept anything—even if it is freely given. It is this one respect also that it cannot be love for all love desires something in return, whether spoken or not. Therefore, let us not call it love but rather something else, some unspoken name that we may each place upon it. In desiring nothing and not being willing to accept any this “love” is already twisted which would be fair grounds to theorize it to be impure but, for your sakes gentlemen, I shall give another reason.
The primary reason why this desire I speak of is impure is not because of its inability to accept love given it, rather it desires the hurt of the one it “loves” instead of the well-being. As I said before, this is because this emotion I speak of is not love but rather something higher, something twisted in its own right yet fuller then love in its unselfish wishes. It seeks the hurt, not because it wants to, but because it foresees the futility of loving anything romantically. It sees that, in itself, it is too bad to be loved and, therefore, the proponent of this emotion purposefully hurts the one that seeks to love him in order to keep the giver from an even greater hurt in the future. For which is worse: to uproot a seed before it fully blossoms, or to uproot the plant of love when it is in full bloom? Answer me that honestly, gentlemen, and you will see the logic of my statements.
It also in this respect that I find myself incapable of love for I do not wish to love because I do not wish to be selfish. If I do not love I keep anther from an even greater hurt that would transpire if they were to fully love me. Therefore, in this I transcend the rank of “germ” that I spoke of earlier and become a man, even if others do not think it to be so. However, does it matter if others do not believe it to be so? If one insists that a wall is black and another says its white will any be able to persuade them otherwise if they are firmly convinced in their own minds? Whether the wall is white or black it does not matter, so long as one is convinced of themselves no one will be able to teach them otherwise—hence my reasoning that I keep others from loving me because I do not wish to hurt them. My own wall is black, gentlemen. Who are you to tell me that it is really white?

IV

Lastly though, I wish to speak more to myself then to any of you. I wish rather to convince myself of my own writings for, truthfully, all I have hitherto spoken to you of have been lies. Perhaps I could be convinced in my own mind that they are not lies, but I cannot be even certain of that. If I tell you that truthfully they are lies that I have said what it to say which is the lie? It could either be my confession or the entire argument and, again truthfully, I myself am not certain of either. Perhaps if I could be convinced in my own mind of anything I wrote I would then believe it but I cannot say I am certain of much I have written.
Perhaps it has been out of spite… yes… spite, spite at the very knowledge of what I myself have done to me. It has not been any of your faults, gentlemen, and as I’ve said before, I do not wish for any sense of sympathy. Rather, I wish to understand… or be understood. I myself wish to understand me. If I were convinced of half of what I have said then perhaps I could convince you of it entirely. But I do not think that any of you could be convinced of it for, in lies, I cannot even believe what I say. Hence my inability to lie straight out to you, hence my desire for the truth within me.
I do believe there is a speck of truth in all of us, gentlemen, even in the most chronic of liars and thieves. There must be some moment, some crack within the continuum of time, that even Satan himself would tell the truth honestly. Perhaps it was when he admitted within himself that he was proud and fell from eternal grace for, even though he admitted it, he did not have to accept forgiveness for it. Perhaps there is some truth in what I have written, though what and where it is (or if there is any) I cannot say.
There is one thing though, gentlemen, one thing that has nagged within the back of my mind and it is because of this that I have written to you now. Yes, even in my purpose I have lied to you for, indeed, I do not believe in anything I say. I wished to write to you not to understand or to be understood, rather I write to you now in hopes that I could then define me. In all of this, gentlemen, I have been exceedingly wicked for I have stolen fire from the very throne of God and I do not wish to return it. My pride will not let me, hence my inability to accept my own forgiveness of myself. That is why I write to you now for I have only wasted your time… gentlemen… please, forgive me!

Dreams of the Weaver

For Kiesha, to see
Her dreams made anew;
For Joykie to know
That dreams come true.

Mary Dawn to find
She dreams not alone,
And Mari to let
Dreams be her home.


I
The Weaver

He sits upon a painted chair
Of cherry hue in velvet black,
Set upon the clouds that cling
So dutifully, so beautifully
On the limp and lucid sky.
Far beyond the stars that reach
High into the nests of night,
Where one might faintly glimpse
A gleam of his halting hands.

Within these hands lays a captive—
The trappings of his clever craft—
A pen wherewith to weave his words
As wispy as the willow branch,
Upon a page so brazenly.
His lyric on this lonely loom
With whispered longing he does write
Into the night, while his muse
Bemused by sleep slumbers tight.

Stand! Let me weave a welcome strand
Into your weary, wind-swept sleep;
The night is yours, the dreams are ours,
The moon needs not to fear the deep.
Walk with me within the park
The dark of night conceals our play.
Sorrow—willow branches wish
That they could laugh as we do now—
Take my hand, we’ll break the day.


The child! See the child as he dances, as he plays naked in the fields of corn; fresh mud on his toes, fresh sun in his skin—what wonderful skin to be alive in. He smiles; he knows that he alive, that he dances, that tomorrow he will do the same. That I were a child and that life were a game once again, that I could live in such frivolous simplicity!
Yet I will write—weave my words as a tapestry of the little boy—I can, sadly, do no other. If I were but a boy again I would dance, life was made to be happy. Yet I am happy… so long as I write. Darling, do you think it to be so strange? The architect laughs at his structures, at his monuments of the Tudor grandeur. Why should I not be pleased with this?

And all my weaving by this time
Woven into pantomime.

Yet, I wonder sometimes over you, my darling, have you yet found me. The little girl runs naked in the fields of corn, yet why is she all alone? The boy at least has his warming sun, his mud and sticks to know that he is completed. What does the little girl do—she sleeps! Dance; dancing is what she should be doing—why else the covering of corn? The weeping tree sits by the weeping brook, her limp willow branches sway in utter sorrow and contempt. Perhaps if we danced together then she would not be as sad. Sleep on, my darling, and let me dance with you.



II
The Wicket


Through this wicket we will find
A subtle path into her mind;
Watch our Athens built by Ants
As we speak of French Romance.

Stars twinkle high overhead, their wisps of light winding down towards the world. Twinkle, twinkle little star, why do you shine oh so far—why do you always shy away? The once green fields are now a desolate mine of snow; each iced kernel a gleam, a twinkle, a mirror of its own inherent star as it shimmers—as it sheens—one thousand diamonds for one thousand dreams… Each dream is now lost within the world.
Soon I will dance, soon I will dram. Will you let me lie with you as I sleep? I only dream of you. I dream too—I dreamt once, at least. It was cold, it was night: swans swam all around me. They were my words, my musings unto the willow tree. I wrote of them and they wrote of me:

Our sad and sweet ancestral song
Has kept us clear the whole night long,
While all the world has slept away.

It was a door—yes that was it! They opened a door unto me: a haunt within that melancholy melody; a doorway within the doors of dreams, a world enchanted by the night. And that sad, sad willow tree, she gave me one graceful strand of her golden hair. One single branch that floated on the cold and weeping waters of the moor the swan was swimming in. It became my string, my wooden strand for me to wherewith weave a wicket into the world: a door within a door for all the world to see, a door within the mind so we can remember how to dream. Would you let me weave a wicket into your dreams, my darling? I only dream to find you again.

Would you wish to watch the weaver
As he weaves his wooden strands,
To from the sunken leaver
With his torn and weary hands?

For though he seems inspired
By his broad and barren loom,
He is sad and he is tired
As he writes beneath the moon.

The little girl sleeps softly
But alas, she sleeps alone,
That’s why he weaves so costly
By his red and velvet throne.

In his words he’s found a door
He will meet her in her dreams,
Where they’ll love forevermore
Where the Swan and Willow sings;

So weave your wicket, weaver!
The night cannot last long
Bequeath her mind with fervor
To sing your dreamy song.


III
The Door of Dreams


Mists still cling onto Her hinges,
Hinging on the hope that they
Will survive the passage of dawn
And live to see another night.
Her beams are branches lased tightly
Before the lash of laughing cold,
And ash around her brightly burns
Its embers a wish, remorseful.

Come, here is where the Fairies play,
They have no need to fear the dawn;
The world is now encased in dark
And the hunter sleepeth fast tonight.
The wolf and the fawn, they await
In silence they sleep at his door;
They have no need to fear the other
They are both akin and brother.

Take my hand, this door you see
I’ve weaved as I’ve watched you sleep;
Your dreams have been cold, my darling,
Will you not let me warm with you?
The fire burns in summertime
Yet smolders when it comes to frost;
Won’t you let me dream with you,
When all our dreams are gone and lost?

There’s flames before the door you see
But fire burns within our souls,
And oceans fear their gripping grasp
For we are far more deep then they,
With emotion of emotion
The motions of this door are set,
Look through the keyhole if you will
To perceive its great delights.

Smell, the senses are born to you
The Minerva of the Nile
Smiles at us, her hair of myrrh
And spice entice all of mankind
To hear her wondrous words to them.
Behold the clammy core of earth:
It is not fire but is ice
Melted by your warming tears.

Do not cry, my little darling,
This door was made for you to dream;
The salt mines of Sodom are the fruits
Of your vast, unending flows.
My hands are worn and bloody-stained
So you would have to weep no more,
I come to meet you in your dreams
So you won’t have to dream alone.

Sleep! Sleep, my little darling,
Soon will come the rising sun
And all the world will then awake.
Yet still, the night is young and fresh,
Freshly lie the dreams before us;
Rest in the flower fields tonight
And do not fear to dream alone,
I will always dream beside you.


IV
The Muse


Nights such as these have always held a fascination for us. Its clear outside, darling, I can see the heralds of twelve thousand years as we’ve always dreamed of doing. There are little clouds in the sky too: silver sheets to cover the bosom swell of the moon. Nights like these have always held us within her dreams.
Its so warm outside, my darling, why do you shiver so? I remember, you shivered once like this before—it was on Saint Crispin’s Day. Snow fell like little, flaky droplets, frozen tears upon your frozen soul and you clung to me for warmth, let the fires of my soul melt you. But now you shiver though it is warm—why can’t I lay beside you? Every day since we’ve parted has been frozen; every day is now a new Saint Crispin’s Day. All is cold without your presence near to warm me, darling. Long—oh so long—have your hailstones pounded upon the bitter encampments of my soul. Is that just why you shiver now, could it be you are as cold without me as I am without you? I at least have my words, my writing to weave upon the tapestry of the world. But what do you have, darling? At least I have my tears…

My soft, bitter tears….

I lied before, you know. It is not warm tonight—it is so cold that it burns. But at least I have my wet drops of solitude to warm me. Why do you not weep the same? You inspire my very being—does that not ruin you as much as it ruins me? Of course not, I weave so you do not have to weep. If you cried as I did it would mean the near death of me. Yet still, it inspires me—though it burns through the core of my very senses. You are within the innermost parts of my being—can a man drink of fire and still be not burned? Oh but I have, and in enormous quantities too, amounts far too terrific for any mortal man to bear! I drink of you whenever I weave into your dreams. You are the salty air I breathe, pause while I remember; then flail me once again.
I remember—oh God how I remember! It was once not always this way. Once you were a sweet savor unto my soul, but now you’ve burned as flames every time I think of you. Why…why do you wish to destroy me? All I wished to ever do was immortalize you. Please, I beg of you, express with malediction just why you hate me so. Why you wish to create and then destroy me.
Behold the standing oak! How graciously he spreads his leaves in the summertime. Some day they will fall and catch the world aflame but, for now, let them bloom. When they fall we can then weep the destruction of purity—but why weep for that which is yet to come? Will it alter their drift all the same?
If you do not express your spite to me will it therefore change anything? Inside you know I adore you—even with the very last drops of my bile. Why do you not believe it to be so? It is for this very reason that I adore you, it is for this very reason that I loathe… No matter though, winter has fallen on the world; the oak leaves are turned to dust beneath the suffocating snow.
Would you believe though that I miss you and that I wish you did not have to suffer so? Why do you hide from me, my darling, the world itself could not contain you. Can you not see that my very soul craves to reach out and touch you again; can you not see that I only dream of you?

Muse! can you not see
You are my dreamy door?
J’aime, je meurs d’envie,
Je vous adore.

That is why I write, my muse, that is why I weave. This door that I have woven was so that I could hold you again. Do not cry, darling, do not cry; my lips have now become your tears. My fingers ache to touch you, to clothe the little girl with the soul of the little boy. Dance, my darling, dance; let our dreams tell us where we ought to be. Sleep, my little one, shut your eyes and I will soon be beside you.


V
The Swan and Willow Tree


Float upon the flailing limbs
Of a lost and limpid role,
Lucid fogs could crown the whims
Of your sad and sweetened soul;

Yet you swam, and yet you sing
Upon a pond of tar,
Depressive note now takes wing:
Impressive beauty mar.

While the word, happily,
Did gaze… then walked away.

Were you sad on that daybreak, my mistress of the skies, did you weep as I did? Yes, I wept—oh so bitterly! The mere remembrance of that morning breaks my very soul. Can you feel the tears I wept, oh lonely swan? Every one of them still feels fresh upon my cheek. Each one for you—only for you—I weep as I have wept for no other.
I had not left you when came the break of day. I still stood; my head drooped in shame at what men have done to you, your heart-wrenching chords still ringing in my heart. Those black dregs of death you did not always swim in—they placed them there before you in mockery of beauty. And yet you swam, and yet you sang! How wonderful your chorus sounded in the night. Brave bird teach me your words, that I only had the courage of your melodies.
That your silver feathers did not have to feel the same that they once bore: that would be better then a dream for me. That you could teach me your lonely song, then I would not have need to dream anymore. No, I would not need to dream and neither would my darling. Dreams both I and she would become. Our wickets would only weave into reality.

Here swims the avian queen
By grace alone and beauty
Crowned, yet she lives perilous:
A slave amongst them all.

Your mystic eyes hold trance over my soul, enchantress. Your artist pose so graceful that no painter would dare design you. No, they could not, nor would they: you are the artists soul trapped in a fleshly form, the spirit that is maligned by men of this world. Can they not listen, can they not understand? All we wished to do was set them free!
No, they will not, nor could they. Their ears are as impassable walls of stone: high and cruel stone, granite blocks taken by the monsters from the mountains of the north. They have brains not, nor do they dream, their minds and harts are endless vaults of cruelty. Therefore, do not weep for them, my darling bird, for they do not wish to be set free. Fly with your hatchling brood into my dreams. You know you shall be welcomed there eternally.

* * *

Great and gracious lady, duchess of the magic moor, why do you weep so futilely; why do you droop your branches in melancholy to wade besides the pools that surround you? Does not your name bear sorrow enough in itself? Do not weep in shame.
You are not alone, my little willow, I too have tasted the pomegranates of pain. I know what it is like to dream and watch those fantasies played out by another. I too have seen others suffer as they writhe, as they squirm. The cries that they make not being what anyone should bear. I too have watched the little girl as she sleeps alone, wishing that she would not have to feel lonely. But that is why I write, that is why I weave. I wish to enter her dreams so we could both find serenity. Would you be pleased if I could do so? You would have less to morn for then.

And all ours pain upon this stage
Were driblets in a bloody page.

I remember once when you were pleased, when I first found you before the rising of the chilly morn. I climbed into your branches, found my abode within your gracious arms that that ascended into the sky. You held me, rocked me gently to the rhythmic whispers of the swan. We spoke of beauty under the pale of the moon until she folded her wings asunder and drifted into a blessed sleep. What love! What gentleness I felt as I lay in your embrace. Your hair of myrrh aloes intoxicates me more then any brewery.

My darling, darling willow tree
Sing now softly unto me,
While all our pain will fall away
Upon this bleak and blessed day.


VI
The Dream
(1)


At last it is finished… at last it is done; the wicket door into your soul has finally been completed. Long hours spent in twilight labor have been forgotten; thick did the blood from my hands once cake the willow loom. And yet it has been worth it darling, it has been worth it all. The very thought of you has washed the red flows from my mind and now only my desires burn crimson for you.
Stars did twinkle in the sky as the finishing strands of my work were completed—their happy glimpses a hundred wishes into the well of time. The moon takes on a brighter hue while all the sky a darker blue. They each know that now my work is done, my masterpiece completed, and now I take my final bow. And the door—that whimsical wicket that has so entranced me—it is now my dwelling place within your starlight dreams. Mud and playing sticks set aside… now a man is born into the world.

What a great creaking! What a great crashing and tumulus waves! What orchestra’s to blessed euphony! I can hear their playing in my ears: the laughter of stars that guided me. What mirth, what harmonies—choruses of one thousand melodies. And what melodies! They are the damp and darkness here: countless notes played upon the minds of men…

And each captured by the pen.

Behold…no, that would be to bold. Ah but a blaze of color is set before me. Reds in a violent sway mingle with the blood of purple and green. What lights—succulent lights—far more then the delights of men. They meld with the colors as they spin, as they twirl, a whirlwind of sight altered not but by the choruses of your mind. Dazzles of autumns golden leaves, the hills are ablaze but the heat is void; oceans of blue that turn with tides, violent tides of red and black.
And the smell—the fragrances of aloes and cinnamon emblaze themselves in my olfactory. Branches of almond tree charred by the brunt of fire, fresh water in all its vitality: the tastes of gods could not compare to these. Where are you now, oh boastful Nile bounties? What of your treasure troves of spikenard and mint, treasure troves of the ancient Persian king? These, surely, would put your scents to shame.
Watch them, watch them as they twirl. Their every beat a violent whirl… yet all seems more gentle then the bleating of a lamb. They are spinning faster now; the music is reaching a feverish pitch. There are Fairies trapped within, the choice ladies of the Fae subjugated to your command. They dance; they twirl with the colors and the sounds so viciously that it seems almost as a race, one delight attempting to outdo that of its neighbors. I feel as a man that has been intoxicated by the draughts of both love and poison. I must shut my eyes… these things be too great for any man to bear. There is fog setting in all around me now, I can feel it as it clasps my flesh: cold and clammy. Shivering, I open my eyes and all around is a darkness too great for the eye to see. Again, I must force my eyes a-sealed, I feel the shadow of death encompass my soul. Then I blink and I am brought to pleasure….

I am in the presence of thee.


(2.)


What trembles I have felt within
My heart of cold and granite stone,
As my eyes have gazed upon
The golden globes of my love.
My love, my love that I’ve dreamed of,
Long have been your dreams of late
While you await the dreary dawn
In dark and dreariness, alone.

Yet I have dreamt of this alone—
Though oft my sleep was void of all
That could be called a single dream
By screams, in sleepy summertime.
The Satyrs weep by riverbeds
As do the gods in cloudy coves,
For there is naught more blest
Then sight of two embracing loves.

Yes, they weep, but not for joy
For jealous are they made of us;
Yet touch us they could never try,
The shadows of sleep conceal us.
Come now, darling, from the dark
The lark will bear you in her wings,
With happy strokes we will ascend
Into her aviary heights of gold.

The Congo flows of beating blows
Beat slower now then our hearts,
As we, enraptured, soon forget
All thoughts that once consumed us.
Embracing, our hearts are racing—
Two souls do speed in skies above
While stars become our comet tails,
As trails to mark our paths of love.

Starlight twinkles on our heads:
A sprinkle, light, to beds below
Where men do sleep in wakeful rest—
For they envy us as well.
They cannot see as we have seen,
Cannot dream as we have dreamt;
Their twisted passes now but seem
A worthless writhe in days they spent.

Yet, we love; and yet, we dream—
Oh let this last forevermore!
The oceans tide could not compare
To the depths I feel within you.
Let this linger, our sister stars
Blaze bold and cold beside us now.
Fire forgotten beside your dreams,
I breathe and dream of you alone.


(3.)


Fire’s heat blazes brightly on my soul, my love; yet you far transcend even he. Our passions melt within our hearts—could not our minds and bodies too? Ah, what thrill, what ecstasy of the eternal evermore! Ever more do I desire you as I pierce, as I spear deep within you. Weep your tears of joy… spill your drops of love for me.
Could it possibly be that I love thee more then this? Oh but I know I do, my darling, I know deep within as you lay and breathe beside me. I desire—most highly—to take your heart, even your very mind, and enfold it with my own. Then we would truly be one: two souls inhabiting the same body, a house of hearts to raise our love within.
A house of chords! The sounds of the sweet and rumbling moon could near the sounds we make into the night. Let us love, let us burn! The sweet melon-dews of the dawn shall feed us when we awaken. Is this not what we are to become, my love: two souls entrapped in the dreams we share tonight? No more talk of melancholy, no more sonnets to pen for the paling moon. She awakens too slowly and ails too quick. Henceforth, I shall see the moon no longer, nor gaze into the evening skies. Your eyes are the fairer twins of that nefarious sphere, your lips far more red then the bitter blood of suns.
Oh and now I am happy, now I am content! Behold… there in the darkness, in the deep vaults of your mind… The sawn, that lady of elegance, how she displays her downy so keenly. No more talk of sorrow, past are the tales of treachery. No she sings of the kindred of joy, her brood returns from the breeding grounds of the south with laughter in their lungs…

Where they flew for the Island kings
With their callous-ridden wings.

Do you hear now, darling, how she sings beneath the courting moon, how thy dance in the sky so splendidly? Two creatures of nature that understand each other in their entirety: the swan of graceful elegance, the moon of ponderous melancholy. Yes, she sings and sings for us—for all lovers within the world. Kindred songs of sorrows past and pleasure for hereafter, Songs that have transcended thought since before the dawn of time.

Songs that we have heard before:
Les chansons… d’amor.


VII
The Waking Dawn


Dawn is coming soon, my darling, and nature’s bowls shudder at the sudden change. See… the little drops of dew that have fallen atop the leaves that cling steadfastly to your skin; each one of them is a token tear from the Heavens at your coming separation. The animals and Fae that once danced so freely now retreat into their hidden, briar-holes. It would not sit well with them should they be spotted by the day.
Stay! Please do not leave me alone any longer. The very thought of us apart again bores holes into the deepest caverns of my soul. My heart already bleeds at the mere thought of it, feel my cheek, my darling, the blood rushes there now. Life was not made to be lived alone, yet I fear that alone you soon may be… No, you will not, I will; for what do you lack in entirety? You have your dreams and the leaves of corn to clothe you in the daytime. I, however, have become a sprite—a hermit to your bidding. The wicket is torn, my darling, torn by the hands of the very gods that envied us so. No route back for me, my love, I dwell now within the darkness of your dreams.
And yet I knew, I knew within my heart that this would happen. I seldom lie, but then I did as I stood before the wicket door. I told my mind that I would return and, therefore, found the courage to enter into your dreams. Now I am here, my darling, and do not regret a singe deed that I have done. The feel of your arms around me, your skin against mine, has been worth twelve thousand years spent under the sun.
Hold me fast, my darling…the night begins to slip away. Dawn is but a cruel machine bent on destroying the love that we have shared in the quit times of the dark… the lark is whispering softly—ironic song for saddened end. Her notes a ghastly mirror of the euphoria we have shared. In side our hearts, inside our minds, we are one and shall be forevermore… Please, my darling, promise me that you will dream again. In the night is when we will dream and love each other as lovers should. You will know my presence all around you—my spirit is now the skin of your soul.
Hold me close, my darling…and please…do not cry. Night was not made for such bitter flows; let my kisses wipe them from you. Let us hold each other and fear not the night, for soon comes the day where no man can love. drops of dew replace your tears; twinkle, twinkle skies above…one last time to guard our ways.
Soft, the dawn is waking, her harp a ringing of the bells. Hells! Wicked knells! Gone is the soft singing of the lark, now the crashing of cymbals awake. Darkness is fading fast—hold me closer, darling, I do not wish to slip away. Oh dreaded day, why must the sun wake? The beams thereof are the rays of death! The sunlight leaves a sweat on my brow… could it be I’m fading now? But I do not wish…to fall away. Hold me closer darling and let us spend these, the last of our moments, together… In silence let us wait. Alas, the day will still be stronger.
Closer darling, let me cling to you one last time as I feel myself slip away. Rays of warming light do glance my cheek and I feel cold…so very cold today.

The Experience of Existence

In the human mind, the area of experience—that is to say, who gains it more easily—is one of the most simple, yet odd of recesses of the brain to explain. It would almost seem that experience can only be understood by a mind so fresh, so brilliant, so virgin to the world that it is the mind of a simpleton. “Come now,” I can almost hear you say, “How could that be so?” Please sir, stay, let me explain myself more fully.
The simpleton mind is more able to easily understand the entity of experience because he accepts “facts” without a second thought. He is a man whom, upon learning that two added to itself makes four, would accept it as any child would. Therefore, once he faces adversity, he will undoubtedly accept the experience that it brings and move on (his addled brain not yet functional enough to believe otherwise.) In that respect, he is superior to what I will now call, “the conscious man.” That does not mean that he is smarter then him though.
The conscious man is more aware of his surroundings and, coincidentally, he is therefore less able to accept experience because of it. He is a man who, upon learning that something is stated as fact, will question as to why it is so. ‘Does twice two really make four? How is it so?’ That is what he will ask himself upon hearing such and such things. Only once he observes something from every possible angle and scenario will he be able to accept and learn from it. Therefore, he will undoubtedly take longer to learn from adversity unlike his fallow friend the simpleton. In this he is inferior to the simpleton because he takes longer to accept something. In this is found the oddity, sir, but the simpleton is still dumb!
I do not believe that someone can be made to learn from the mistakes of others. I believe that the very concept can only be achieved by Donkeys and fools! If one were to be made to learn from the mistakes of others, then the life he would live would not be his own. A man can sit all his life and watch a game in the arena but, until he gets off the grandstand though, he will never be a gladiator. The same is of a man that learns from the mistakes of others. “Do not touch the stove, it is hot.” But is the stove really hot? Does the fire really burn? Until one touches the flame he will never really know, will he?
“Oh but of course the stove is hot. Any fool will be able to tell you that.” Aha, see! It is in there that you are wrong, it is in there that lays the divine absurdity. The simpleton does not really know if the stove is hot at all. He only believes it to be so because he was told it was, or he saw someone suffer for it. Therefore, he is but a foolish bystander in the play of life and not the actor he ought to be. He will never truly know if the stove is truly hot unless he touches it and, in that circumstance, becomes an active conscious man, knowing both good and evil.
If he does not though, he never would have experience it. He will never have known if the stove is truly hot or cold and will not be able to truly decide until he tries it. The simpleton will pass his life as a simpleton—always depending on others to experience life for him and tell him what sensations he is to feel. He will only truly know that the stove is hot and that twice two is four but will realize—above all—nothing!
The conscious man is a knowing man and will never be able to learn from the mistakes of others. He will wonder if the stove is truly hot and, after finding it is such, he will begin to wonder if touching it in a different area will produce the same results. Oh the absurd genius of the conscious man! He will begin to experience everything and miss nothing. His mind will morph the boundaries of existence through what he knows and has felt, and bring to new heights every sensation of reality. He will not have been just the gladiator or the spectator, but will be both one and the same. He will be the entire arena! He will not exist long.
The simpleton will always exist longer then his conscious fellow. The strain upon the conscious mans mind through experiencing everything will kill him off eventually. However, can one call a life where one drifts in the shadow-zones of time—knowing neither good, nor evil, but rather nothing at all—life? The simpleton may accept experience easier and last longer, but he does not truly feel. The conscious man will not last long but it is he who feels through first-hand knowledge and, as such, is the only one who can say that he truly lives.

Emotion and Mentality

Within the subject of mental capability versus emotion, the question has been continually brought to my mind of, “Why is it that the conflicting members of both my mind and my emotions cannot, subconsciously, come into agreement one with another instead of falling into indecisiveness?” Why can’t they—instead of warring between themselves—ban together in unnatural alliance so that, through them, can come about the mastery of my being? Is it that they do not wish to overcome my consciousness? Come, come now. We know that not to be so in the very least.
All of human responses: pain, laughter, pride, joy; they are all but either the minds or emotions attempt to overthrow the supreme mastery of my consciousness over them. It cannot be stated enough that that neither mental capability, nor emotional fluidity, have mastery over the rational human soul. Emotion, as we well know, is irrational at best and the mental capabilities of men are easily manipulated through the mechanics of their own conceit. It is the supreme consciousness of the soul that rules over them, but yet, if they resent my rule, why do they fight one against the other? Can a one hope to outdo the other and, therefore, hope to find rights unto the governing of my consciousness? Can a man declare war on both God and the Devil and hope to come through unscathed?
Oh, but I try not to be a mean of either my mind or my emotions. In fact, I would rather let them run free if the other would allow it to be so. I am therefore like a chess master, playing against a mirror within his rotting cell of consciousness. I view myself with indifference, not caring whether the white or black pieces win, yet always countering my own moves to come to a perfect stalemate in every situation.
Aha! Come forth White Bishop to claim the spaces held by the Pawn of my mind. (The Pawn is some situation whom I have cunningly twisted unto my own ends, no doubt. Someone or something which, after seeing the potential damage that might be caused to my person by him; I have set my ambassador of emotional goodwill to capture.) Now I shall show him the purity of God, show him the hope in becoming one with the divine in touching, soul to soul, with one’s own emotional capability.
But wait… what is that? Now here comes a pretty treat of equal delight. Hurrah! Now my Black Rook of logic has forced my own goodwill into oblivion. Once again, the chessboard of my own life has fallen into a complete state of indecisiveness, a grand, grand state of inertia. No longer will the White Knight of my heartfelt genuineness be viewed as the gallant fellow he was once thought to be. He is unmasked before me. Before everyone! And yet I—the chess master—continue to tell myself and all around me that he is needed and will, by some stroke of fate, be still found of some use to me. He will destroy my logic which will, in turn, be destroyed by another Pawn, etcetera.
However, I, for all my masterful stalemates, have become bored with the apathy, with the apparent immobility of the game of my own life. Now I wish not to move anymore, knowing full well that, if I move another piece, the inertness will only continue. So, therefore, I wish not to play the game anymore but will adopt a new strategy in this warfare. Make your move, dear mirror, I for one shall refuse to respond! Yes, that is it! I refuse—absolutely and incorrigibly—to move one more piece, be it either black or white. My rebellion against you will grow in length for the game will never progress. I do not wish for it to progress, I do not wish for my consciousness to make anymore choices in this confrontation of itself. Instead, I shall stare. Yes, I shall stare. Stare into your eyes in my rebellion, for I know that sooner or later, one of us must look away. I assure you, I do not intend for it to be me.
And so I have starred and, I must admit, a mirror makes out to be a most excellent opponent at the game. Never once has he looked away—the bastard! He knows that I am bitter against him, against him always countering every move I make of either mental ability or emotionality. He knows that I am filled with spite at him for always causing so much indecisiveness and that is why he refuses to look away. He wishes to make me suffer but, this time, he shall be the one to loose. He cannot hold out that much longer now, can he?
As time has passed by, and while I have glared at my refection, a new thought has entered into my head. Why not take all the pieces on the board (both white and black) and declare war—not on myself, but on my adversary within the looking-glass? I might have been thinking this within a moment of blind emotion: much as a young girl fancies her lover to be flawless, but is it really that wrong? The more I contemplate it, the more it seems to make sense to me.
Why, if both emotion and mental ability were to meld—not to overthrow me, but my self-adversary—would it not be a grand thing? Then it would not be a blind emotion that would drive me, the emotion would be under the harness of my mind and driven by the desire within my soul. It would be a clever force that compels. It would be the premeditated murder of my own duality!
Vice? Now would not be the time to think of something as trivial as it. Rather, the willful knowledge of in for the sake of sin alone. Yes! That is it. Debauchery… orgies to pagan gods under the pale of the moon. Let my emotions and my mind compromise together to submerge my willing soul in the lusts of my own carnality. Let me rot, let me burn! The flames of my own inherent iniquity will be sufficient to warm my troubled sleep. Is not the heart of man already born wicked; like the ulcer crowning atop the anus of Mother Nature? Are we not gods in our own rights, more pitiful and base then the beasts of the field that we have claimed mastery over?
Stop it. That’s enough, you hear? Why can’t my soul spare itself the futile floggings of its own consciousness? Debauchery is but a means. And what means? Could it not be that, by overcoming my own faults by indulging them, that I would allow logic to master my own soul? Then what of emotion, what of purity? What would then become of the goodness that is the base of the human soul? If one were to hang itself, the other must fall with it. What would a man not do to save his own soul?Must all saving of the soul be wickedness though? Could not a soul, surrounded by darkness, give itself over to a power higher than its own and, therefore, deliver from the darkness wherein it once abode? If one is in full knowledge that, if he looses his life he shall save it, and he does so to save himself—does that make his sacrifice of self unto no avail? If it is so, then there would be no virtue within the world, only darkness and death.
So therefore, I will loose my life. I accept God and all Christian virtue and piety. But then, by doing so, which would win: black or white? If not the mind, so easily lifted up in its own conceit, then it must be my own emotions. But, are not they so easily manipulated and given over to vice as my carnality is?
Enough of this. If I am to be given over to a higher power, then a higher power I shall be given over to and the choice will be up to him to decide. Some might say that he wants neither my mind nor my emotion to reign over me but that he wishes to reign over me himself. However, that is what I allow him to do, for he shall choose one of the two methods by which he will govern me. The war between me and my duality is not yet over—I fancy that it never will be. As of yet, the stalemate still remains the same and I shall continue to glare at my reflection, but for now, I shall continue to move my next piece.