Preparations for a Departure


Exactly where does this mystification end?

The sound of your laughter in the gloved darkness unnerves me, I’m not in the mood. Not tonight. I really don’t need it, I’m already so tired of everything, especially of being, of being my—Self.

The Self.

The hastily packed bulging at the seams spilling its shameful contents across the indifferent streets worthless piece of luggage that I unwillingly carry around with me at all times, unwittingly retrieved from the bombed out building that used to be my home, for a little while at least. Impossible to lose or even mislay in some crowded train station, always with me and weighing me down and getting heavier with the pointless accumulations of each and every passing minute.

How to escape this tyranny? No narcotic will fix it and no manner of drink will drown it. The opiate of sleep soon wears off and I wake up confronted with the infantile peep show of my dreams. Yes the angelic-daemonic girl-twins will reign terror in heaven tonight, mirror-imaged inverted pendants swaying between heavy pendulous breasts that touch and rub as they feast on blue meat and drink the bloodiest wine. The sublime promise of love contained within the psycho-drama of lust is a glimpse of a unobtainable mountain range seen from an unexpected opening in a squalid and dangerous alleyway; soon comes the revelation, after the initial rapture, after our limbs have become un-entangled that this too solid flesh will not yield, will never succumb or surrender its sovereignty to the usurpation of another being, of another Self.

Of course there is one way out as everybody knows. But what if this exit only reveals the inexorable sarcasm of the Gods and leads to an even darker and inescapable dungeon or to some cruelly designed garden of eternal artistic torture? Some are willing to take the chance. I have known people like that, my first nine months were pregnant with death. But for me that moment is yet to come. So for now I stare out of the window and see only earth water air and fire; but I know there is a fifth invisible element beyond these four walls that constitute our universal prison cell.

When did this mystification begin?


The Succubus

Gustav Klimt-Water Serpents II-1904
Nightly, though sometimes in the daytime too, it has to be admitted, whenever I close my eyes, empty my mind and begin to drift, you appear against a shimmering, shifting background of various shades of blue. Sky, Klein, Royal, Electric. The hues of sex, sorrow and the sense of shame that can only be savoured because there is no succour to be found anywhere in this world.
An anthology of every one of your conceivable postures is imprinted indelibly upon my memory.
Sometimes you tentatively gesture with your forefinger, knowing full well that your feigned shyness is the ultimate aphrodisiac and that I will follow you wherever.
The red zonal markings of your target areas (mouth, tongue, the areola, the labial lips and the cleft of your cunt) beckon to me against the white hesitations of your flesh. You lead me into the shower where the water beats against our shoulders while outside the rain drums against the windows and the roof. I hold your glacial stare with difficultly (never have I known such icy depths) as we embrace each other with one arm (our other hands exploring our respective tropics).
Some nights I am rendered immobile. Yet you still approach, straddle my face with your firm flanks as you take me in your mouth.
While on the still deeper nights, you torment me with black echoes of our imagined union with a succession of strangers –your heavy breasts rubbing against the swollen nipples of a series of sluts or mounted from behind by a stable of studs.
During the interminable nights (and days too, if the truth be told) you taunt me, tease me, tempt me, tie me, bind me… I can never get enough, I will never be sated; this fire cannot be quenched.
Till the time when I unwillingly open my eyes and the vision vanishes, all my lust fades in the grey half-light of an ashen dawn and I am left with an unbearable leaden ache in the centre of my being that weighs down every passing moment. That is, until I fall asleep again.

To Come Up Here First You Have To Go Down Below



Existence is elsewhere. Never right here and never just now. Always someplace before or in the distant after. Yet sometimes you feel that around the very next corner you will be so close as to actually touch.

I. The Dreamer

The Melancholy Lieutenant looking a shade paler than China White, undoubtedly haunted by heavy dreams, begins a story and flies the Black Flag before bowing politely and leaving. He had obviously passed the point and will no doubt surrender once again to his addiction for image. Continue reading