Parus et Prima

Parus: How can we match up our thoughts to this new thing of fancy? We must take a stand, lay claim to our land, grasp it firm and in this iron clasp never falter from its drive. This is a dawn of ill colour.

Prima: And from where this current of determination, brave Parus? Must you stab at the very core of recollection to be struck dumb by your own remembrance of what was? Or do you forget what chains and ropes you have pulled and what gears and springs you have set in motion, like mortals do?

Parus: Here is my hand, behold the silvery blade that makes its extension! What great bonds have I not cut with its filmy edge...Severed the roots of, oh, so many a strands of wasted desire. Yet to my own surprise, more than once I found the very same knife inching towards my throat, ready at a moments notice to throttle me in my sleep. What of that, dear Prima? How can this be, am I not godlike and drift in the flux of universal time?

Prima: Is this face not soft and these eyes not tender? Is this hand not fragrant and this hair not like the hyacinth? You stay your tongue...Then it is true. This being so, how can you even doubt that in the act of remembering youth, old age which is jealous and livid, would not want to slice it into slivers?

Parus: Enough of such questions...I grow tired of the ambiguity of interrogation, from your part at least. I am not vexed Prima. There is no surprise in such actions, only disappointment .

Prima: How come, my lord?

Parus: When you gaze into infinity long enough you come to some conclusions. And see that change is an essential magnet for life. The mind has this as the prima mobile of the galvanization of ideas and the internal electrical stream it generates. There is no eternity! We cannot say that something is eternal in the true sense of the word. For you see, if we accept time as a forward pushing line, past, present and perspective the very essence of universal eternity is canceled from even before conception. For something to be eternal it has to be outside time, thus not being eternal or not even being aware of its temporal powers. Given the boundaries of time, something can be perennial, at its hight...like us dear Prima.

Prima: So this is the elusive formula, time and change and recollection.

Parus: Indeed, and even as we fathom upon such dilemma we change, time bends itself around our metamorphoses and severed are the old bonds. Recollection is just the twist of the knife...

The Museum Girl

The hour grew late, and by the notes of a fantastic melody I strummed my steps up the marble staircase. I was behind her, I am always behind her. She made a subtle trail of coiled scent anywhere she went...it was so easy to follow, and a temptation to great to oppose. She cut the very fabric of air as she waltzed to and fro the great chamber, her steps too light and elastic to bother the floor, yet her shape was earthly enough to catch the light in such a way that it did justice to her fair, smooth skin. Her dress was in sympathy with her gentle body, tracing the shape as if it were aware of its beauty...From the slope of her neck, to the contour of her breasts, to the lines of her waist, it went in a melodious lay down her form, composing a veil sensitive to grace. No agency of time was empowered to set lines upon her brow, yet her eyes were of melancholic luster. Her voice was of some distant, sweet, reverberation as only found in deep woodland areas...near gentle streams. The gestures of her hands were intuned to some greater knowledge of form.

At the far side of the chamber was I, in quiet contemplation of the artwork that hung solemnly on the high walls. Great paintings of master craftsmen that survived ages, and yet no Renoir or Delacroix could catch my eye for more than a few waning moments. The tints on noble faces of time long passed were left livid in comparison to the verve of life that was issuing out from every rustle of a flowered dress that played this young things body. Even the flurry of colour of Signac could not overshadow the brilliancy of her hair or cheeks. No greater combination of chromatic thought had there ever been invented that matched the fine pigment of her skin, making ones mind race in all possible shades. I was bare before this display of subtle alliteration in spectral terms yet in living form. If only I had more than mere language to truly grasp the entire spectacle into one solid shape...no linguistic cage could ever set bars of letters round such grace.

A Late Lunch

An effort was made upon my part, as I focused the half image, so that it became of a scaring clarity upon my retina. I have never felt the ground quake in such a manner before...'neath my helpless feet. Long sleepless hours of numbing work rendered my rationality to a timid spark, and so this paved way for lucid chimeras to play about my fancy.

Moderation was a fools game! And indeed I played a fools gamble for as long as I could remember. With dreary hands I let slip and fall card after card, in the vane hope of a untimely resurrection. No more of that my friend, no more. Look you now on what I dare behold between two of my clasped fingers! See! and let your eyes be dumb with wonder as the Queen of Hearts evades a smile. Awe, the word that comprised and compounded the very essence of the air in that single moment. Broke the vibration I did with a scuff, I did...And as I reached for the pack my hand bled in laceration as I redly palmed the next card. The King of Spades, he frowned between trickles of treacle, thick and brewing. I lifted my head.

I ran my fingers through my hair. I tried to give the impression of some internal motion, but to no avail. The narcoleptic fumes were enough to drown any sober retaliation. The whole of my cognitive ropes and pulleys were thick with tobacco and partly digested ideas. My darling half-borns....My eyes have moved up and down her face for about a quarter of an hour. Beauty was obvious, wit and so much more was long ago confirmed. Sentences of friendly voices buzzed around the jammed hinges of interest and recollection. Some voices spoke out more clearly then others, others more kind then the rest, one more true and close to my heart than all. And as I understood what folly compacted my actions and lucid, ethereal, perigrimations I drew a conclusion.

Her hand graded my shoulder, some words were addressed to me. I could hear not. I could not remove my attention from her fine hair that raced in cavalcade, of ember hues, down some length of her back and arms. With what gentleness of path, fragile veins made trail on her neck and chin, tracing outlines of nobility like in some monumental sculpture of elevated nature. In what sublime depth of calm waters did her eyes made home...I made an indistinct gesture.

With what strength I had let in my body I managed to galvanize the whole of it into an erect posture. My gaze spun wildly. And falling upon her, I saw that she was expecting an answer.
"Cigarette?" asked I, as I made for the door...

Sunrise

Vestal’s living, shinning arm

Blows across a silken Heaven

Stroking strings of gentle stroking

Sounding deaf in their endeavor.

Playing nature with a bow,

Made by nature, Weeping Willow

Lying hopes upon the hopeless,

Staining tears across my pillow.

Marking dead the targets eye,

Bloody daggers dripping hollow

Pierce the sky, from star to star

Drowning me in Heavens sorrow.

Pools of plenty, rivers, gullies…

Shout my deeds of malconception,

Reap the fruits of my ill follies

Taking breath in my deception.

Dreamland music, scorn and glee

Plays and twists and turns and falls,

Throwing bolts in darkest sea,

Monstrous shaping smiles into my foults.

And your gaze beholding and forgiving

Beholds me not with eye of grace,

And your arms, gentle and receiving,

Abandon me in dreary place.

*

Gold the sun rises to meet a blazing sky,

To meet the massive clouds burning and forlorn,

To meet the beach washing in the sea…

To find me there, standing, all alone.

The Flowered Floor

I never saw her before. A fragile frame animated by a pulsating vibration, a graceful silhouette with an elastic footfall, a twirling blur of entwined movement.
I had then no companion but folly, and in his council I let my ear indulge. Too great was my wonder and as I grew more intense in my observation of the rhetoric of movement I let slip the chains and bounds of my soliloquy.
In the midst of the symphonic chatter that now held sway over any musical sensibility, I considered the girl.
Her limbs were thin, long and branchlike, her body frail, and her cloths were mere impediments of expression. Her hair was brittle, like thin glass...it had no colour, but it was vivid. Her stare was blank, filmy blue eyes induced the illusion of sight. But this was only a cheap trick, for I could see beyond their translucent gaze, their self-induced watchfulness. Her feet were tiny, yet somehow proportion made its clandestine presence felt. Her shoes were light.
Her dance was of a mesmeric quality. The circles that were erected by her hands to the rhythm of some unheard logic, the pattern of her waltzing shape cutting pure geometry into the very fabric of accentuated time, this was pure motion animating motion. The action that in turn generates its own roots. By itself separated....

( Photo: Blinded-by-the-light / Deviant Art )

The Fleeting Glance

As she greets me unexpected,
Feeble smile, enthralled, effected,
Prison from my minds own action,
Free to flee but willing capture.
From between the gaze, reflected,
Sends me flying into rapture.

What of will?
And what of dealing
With a speech that
Is unwilling?
Treasure from beyond a phrase,
Gently spoken in a gaze.

And her writing,
Bliss departure
From this world in sinful rapture
And a cage of iron molding,
For my will, a willing capture,
All my frame and all my stature.

So what dense
And hazy thrilling
Of that mind which is unwilling?
Calling forth! Alas, half wanting
The endeavor of this writing,
Undecise,but still undoubting.

Glass-house Mechanism

He sought the last breath that was fleeting his efforts. Gasped was his mouth, and all a-quiver. The empty Glass-house was unfolding the decadence of his actions in a language that could not be translated into speech. Hollowed, his face brewed pestilence...The cogs of rusty metal churned out the last remnants of his rationality. He was drunk upon the same essence of hard spirits as before. He knew the feeling well. It started as an upright bolt in his chest, and prolonged into a daze of the mind. As the mingled aroma of sweat with saintly perfume made its ethereal form felt into his memory so did his body break to the slander of decay. What great exaltation made away with his thought? To what powers may one call when, heavy with the drink of passed shapes rekindled, the whole of vision meshes with folly? The dream of folly! The name in which all action and reaction are clearly seen. That name, which no spot of equivocal nature can retain... Dispelled was the deliverance found in that one name! And the Glass-house made its shape grow tighter around him. To the point of collapsing into one's self, to that abyssal effort of making one's self into vivid words...He spoke

Her face was white, and her hands were white, and her skin had the smell of a cool springs morning. The dazzling spectacle of her eyes rendered me breathless...she was of such a singular mold, of such grace that even the mere air she touched became scented with the fine powder of Jasmin. She sat there, her hands unfolding into a gentle embrace, a soft enmeshment into a nature more pure that the mind could conceive. And how could I, bewildered and drunk, even begin to fathom the translucent paramounts of the Divine composed? I could do no more than be amazed...and as my gasping breath, suspended in my chest, lingered the illusion of motion, her lips parted and the likeness of Heaven was created. Unseen flutters of dreams broke into twirling dances...falling...rising...and the translated speech of these reveries took flesh and shape, and in this flurry I fell in love with their evanescence .

The grown of the glass panes arched into long reverberations all around him. All shaking, the distorted half-light played the notes of discordance. Spinning off into the distance was the sound of violins. Soft, entangled with the sharp Glass-house music, the maelstrom of perjured memory consumed him.