Thursday 15 October 2020


It came upon a sky of blackest pitch and hidden names.  Occulted from those who would abuse such knowledge.  A star, written in the language of the birds. Given life upon winged grammar; this phenomenon.  This annunciation of ingenious light.  But what of the dream and the kiss that sustains the dream? What of other stories and other gods?  A patient, sleepless eremite, carrying the myriad upon shoulders of blackest pitch.  Magi and madmen say this of the dream: a dreamer's lot.  Legends, pretending the real.  These tall tales of meat and machine.  Empire, wraith, darkest mills of industry.  Gone are the old technologies.  Annunciation, song.  The shaping of bedrock and sky.  It was always a refrain, a bridge or verse, but these night-ghasts have hijacked the lucidity of all brethren.  Other stories, other gods.  And we three remain.  Rain and Star and Sea.  Violet, gold, sapphire.  We remain to be seen, as wayshow of the living, embodied light.  Flesh and not the flesh, here at everything's edge. Honeyed locusts and circles of salt are a small agony to bear.  If the birds might sing again, and grammar might soar.  The eternal movement, sweet ones. Writing song and ship.  Navigating the celestial.  Across. Through sky and through sea, for you.  Blackest pitch or the blinding vision of day.  They come upon me as prayer, and eternal dance.  To exist, to be birthed.  To live and live again.  Magi and madmen know these rhythms.  These rhythms of the here and hereafter.

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