04-14-10

She sat at the table thinking about a cigarette and sipping her lager, her lips were the kiss of a thousand partings, her eyes were the joys of an eternal fuck, her hands the promise of long and deep friendships, running on through the countryside and tipping over into quiet dinners and fireside chats.

She sat at the table thinking about a cigarette and sipping her lager and when he walked in with his phallus on his sleeve they became lovers because that was the heartbeat of life. Fractured, disjointed, and all Keith Richards in the air but lovers they were, like colonists in Africa eaten down to the souls of their feet by lions. There’s only one thing to say for such lovers: God bless them. What is the price for feeling love? What cost is demanded of the soul for the feeling of magic which accompanies the new and fresh scent of a lover on your tongue?

I have wandered in the depths of the maddened night and have come ashore come ashore on the sunny cliffs of Camelot, far western shores with a river running through it like a fractured spleen. Jack’s spleen, Jack’s sparrowed spleen. Fallen are the houses of Usher and Atreides, fallen is my heart, fallen is the dew rolled away like Christmas dinner in the gift wrapping ecstasies of pure white dreams. Where once I pursued purity and worshipped at the idol of the holy eunuch life has forced a more enduring purity into my grasp and for this I have forsaken home and country and pursued a course of natural charity of the appetites. Until all appetites are satisfied none can be surrendered but all must be balanced on the silver chord of living all kettle drum kettle drum steel steel steel.

And what is the sound of a thousand riding lovers beating the sheets with the rhythm of the pulse? What is the sound of the distant gasping thrusts of words bleeding deep in the caverns of the ocean floor? What is the sound of the mighty unknown warriors dancing to the death for the glory of their gods? What is the sound of the far away horizon when I know the feeling of the wind and it is just here upon me, the anointing of the day of redemption.

REDEMPTION,

REDEMption,

Redemption,

redemp...

is at hand, like a popsicle stick melting in the heat under the summer sun, the last true sacrifice in the battle for the good, neglected for the worship of the holy eunuch.

She sat at the table thinking about a cigarette and sipping her lager and he was no eunuch and they were bold in their desire, as all good children of the deep. There is no second hand second hand but only the desire of the first, true, love; only the dreams of the one vision of beauty in the eyes of another; the perennial blue of Krishna Kahn on the make.