When I was crowned by grief prince of all things past, tears of faith diminished stung my eyes. Yet the word of our Lord was in the mouths of good men, the sword of Glyn Dwr, tongue of my soul, sang with the salt of the sea in the wound.
I danced beneath a crescent moon with roustabout companions, dined with thieves and whistled for the bill. I sang with the drunks along Caterwaul Street firing volleys of verse across the bows of the soberly sleeping. And when I returned home with the dawn clouds, speckled silver, torn and low I beat myself, dressing myself in the fruits of fury’s labour over blossoms yet unfaded.
I still revel in the switchback swish of a whole supped night. I drink deep from the joyous firmament. Set down a frothing sky before me and I will down it. I will not waste the waltzing hours couched in dark corners of apprehension, rather I will bellow the rage of my delight. I will brawl with all judicious bores, box their ears and bid them end their fasting and celebrate the stay of execution of tomorrow.
The maggot of regret gobbles and shits such ripe resolve. I am burdened with the feverish twists and turns of momentary bliss.. Of lugubrious, lascivious remembrance. Recollections of a seducer’s alchemic art. Such threadbare reverie is slowly, slowly wasting me. Cut a switch to beat the blur of proud and scowling portents and scrape away the oily pigments used for blooding innocents. Swear a calligraphic oath to defend a distant hill and swear once more that neither steel nor straw shall ever break my will. I shall howl a driven Kyrie from the deepest well for there is but a fathom now between my feet and hell.
Waist deep in mists of grass where as a child he played, held by sorrow for the soil, a tear for every blade. Here an old man kneels to pray, amid the crop of decadence and decay. Come to place a wreath of yellow and blue roses for a dead child. This place shines intense black light, grey blood that forms the opaque veneer. The stench of rotting kept behind closed doors, that cannot be hidden, only ignored. And before escape into fleeting dreams, as silently as night falls, an old man screams.
I shall battle fiercely against the maddening flow, the gush and tumult of an ever raging destiny in order to deny the spawning urge. I will not lie with the other grimy corpses, spent and purged. I will not heave my last gasp only to realise that each preceding breath was merely serving as an invocation of my death.
There is a sheer sky, a sheen of magical intent with a crooked finger of stars to beckon me into the folds of night. Yet the tide has turned to ebb, and the sea’s broad back flexes as it contorts in lunatic acts of desire. Perfumed fingers to soothe the ache and arch of your seethe and surge. Breathing, breathing, breathing. Lift you to the shelter of my full breadth, with a ppets tongue, wordless eloquence, breathing, breathing, breathing. Kindle the exquisite fire, slow the frenzy with tender strokes, catch you as you hurl your body up to mine, breathing, breathing, breathing. Deep in the livid furnace of the sublime, breathe breathe breathe. writhe and clutch and wrap ourselves in limbs, breathe breathe, we are drenched and lost in the tempest, breathe, torrents break and savage cries of flesh through flesh, clench me, breathe, haul me deeper, breathe, deeper into the the raging, plunging madness, breathe, breathe, breathe.
When my remains are tinder dry and the grieving sticks in your throat then scatter me in an evening dew, where the memories are few, for I do not wish to lie among the dead. I always swore I was unblessed ground, hell bound. Chased all the way by pulpit brimstone and pew hewn cat-calls. I always swore such oaths in blood, but now my blood turns treacherous and all the altar bric-a-brac in this world or the next melted down could not buy balms enough to soothe a soul betrayed this way. See now as this man of modest charms, shivers and trembles at the growing prospect that all his moderation and self effacing mitigation of the means at his disposal will become a calumny of ash in the twinkling of child’s play. What now attests to my dogged derision of the quelling that falls upon dulled and ragged ears ? Eyes that are ever more blunted instruments of God’s will ? And what have I to offer in return except for withered limbs ? I am a wicked man yet God will have me for He knows that throughout the eternal blessing I shall be conscious of my unworthiness. My whole bearing shall be set in sharp relief and I will gaze upon this sordid tableaux and see my own, too bold, fiery signature blazing from the corner.
Soft shades of rustic colours roll through shades of silken night as if drawn by the waxed moon, until the wane, days blessed release allows the hills once more to rise and valley spread in matriarchal majesty. And in every stitch of this tapestry are the bonds of faith, tradition and of family. The knotty tangle hides beneath. The choral voice rises each Sunday exalting itself in this sepulcher of pastoral hues. The sound of the fallen and the falling. Each man, woman and child cowers from the brackenous barbs of eager gossip with scapegoats tethered at the door. Beside the crumbling wall that forms the mortal boundary of the church there lies a sprawling stagnant lake where Autumn’s wounded fall to die. And rotting on the unkempt road their stench dwarfs the towering spire, and swallows whole the sermons which are cast into the wilderness. Except upon the Sabbath day when congregational perfumes of incense and moth balls keep all noses in the parish free of sin.
Now, now, now the tolling school bell calls woolly lambs to chalk pastures. Children are not raised here, they are fattened up for slaughter. Porridged little boys cling to mum, red legged girls with teeth and tongues a chatter wait to lose their chins to take away and motherhood. To be a stagger girl slumped in doorways mewling into mobile phones for cabs, with handbags full of lipstick nubs and broken wishbones, whose bed is a grave dug fresh each night. A child with the dawdle of curiosity kneels to pick at moss between the paving stones and is snatched up and scolded and threatened with disease amid the litter thrown up by the wheels of the wind.
I am splenetic, bilious and I am old. It terrifies a man to face the length and breadth of his existence wit more than embarrassment and sorrow. To attempt to anthropomorphise the lion of his youth or accept the dulled and mottled plumage of experience. We are mottled and lousy Gryphons for the most part, except for a few who are born to a different fate. The bastard son of a satyr in a God’s boots. I am one such. I am trapped within a framework of such immaculate perception. I coagulate my whole and half truths, codify my silences and catalog my words. I fear only disordered thought, the barb tipped arrows of my imagining which pierce my very self. That will not come loose despite my fierce and fevered wrenching. I swathe the wounds with bandages of flattery, while my feet are bathed with damp, dead leaves.
The future bares it’s teeth as it yawns, and age tears strips of carrion from lust now less Promethean. I have spat upon the relics of the subterranean rite, have heard the nimble blasphemies and smelled the vile aromas which mask the scent of reticence. I have been gored by a cuckolds horns, I have seen both love’s faces and set his concubines free, snored loudly through the liturgy, seen perfect erotic beauty in the flotsam of dumb show ritual. I wish that I could disappear, leave without a trace with the insolence of a frightened bird, who flies with untamed grace, beyond the breathy static whispers to where the infant wonder stood. Before we raped and maimed it, and smeared its beauty with its blood.