Wordstream – WyrdstreamPosted by VI
So sometimes, shape and form run together. Sometimes the tongue spasms and twitches like an electric eel in the scarlet depths of my mouth and throat.
Speech, you see, wants to be free. The things buried in flesh arise on gusts of smoky breath, to be scattered like dragons teeth upon the earth. From those seeds, those serpentine roots, up come heroes risen again to do endless battle.
To the music of bared teeth and the drumbeat of the heart, to the bloodsong, they do dance and mimic and mask the primoridial beast which we be.
But those beasts were never dumb; never and no-wise were they speechless. No! For through the aethers floats a phrase, caught in the sail of the soul:
“Dark, they were, and golden-eyed.”
And thus so, to be, all clothed in shining feathered darkness; they smile with lunar coolness, their veins all filled with golden ichor, lips curving in a blossoming mirth harvested with the sickle of Saturn.
With silent gaze, so we are looked upon, and that same speech sinks into my veins, my sinews, my very fibres. It brews there blackly, until with swift bite, it begins to flow again, ink cariving curlicues of meaning into the worlds.
And here, I pause, raising my head beside the river, emerging from the blackest mud to see the curve of the starry Nile wend its way through the deep gulfs beyond the very suns and thrones of archons.
Silence and breath then, only and ever. For behold, the Terrible One strides across the lands, swift as shadow, harder than iron and ice and bone. So then, the lion-headed lord does homage, peels back its face to reveal the skull beneath in desperate facsimile. Listen, and see the agonized roar being silenced with a gesture, “No Fear.” Witness obeissance eternally denied, now rendering the proud prostrate.
Again, behold – the walls of paradise are broken down, the growth of green – a profusion of life nourished by the rain that burns holes in heavens and enlivens the very earth.
Behold the heated heart, encircled with a serpent.
Listen then, for such things are swift to depart, borne away on eagles’s wings!
Understand, if you must – this brightly coloured dream of Eden is naught but cold ash in the creation of the cremation grounds. Aprehend the knowledge of holy dread – that hieros gamos of yawning abyss and cold corpses. All desires are spent and inexhaustible – each space and time carved open like poem, like pomegranate and apple, the seeds hidden in the heart.
And yet – aye, always, and yet…
From all things Dead, thus springs the Life, thus wells up the Living Water by which we may once again recall ourselves. You who believe yourselves Fallen, you have yet to fall far enough.
Down and down, ever descending, ever bathed in poisons and perils, until, entwined one stands, noose around thy neck. Mounted on the bucking tree of pain, so alll is stripped away, inner flesh turned open to night air, revealing the bark beneath. What messages remain carved there, sigils and signs inscribed ourselves, innocent children in that Endless Summer, before forgetfulness darken’d the horizon?
What runes lie buried in our throats, what secret tongues, what cants may we whisper, we who have ever and always gone forth? Thieves, murderers, witches, cripples and madfolk.
“We cast you out!” they cry.
“We were already going,” thus we reply, with a smile and a wink; lazily we wave our Hands of Glory, for we always fare-well. Alway saying goodbye – for may Gods be with you, friend.
As they are with us, always.
Be seeing you