I need you to
do something for me. And realise that by ‘me’, I mean no one, single entity,
but rather that I beseech you on behalf of--everything. I do not make this
request of self-immolation--we both know the terms--without my own despair
and regret, and my own constant pain, nor do I fail to understand that what
has ever been meant by the act, in any previous gesture or metaphor, in no
way speaks to what I ask of you here, or is anything but misleading. This is
the one gesture.
I know what is coming. I knew it tonight
walking around in this ridiculous heat, absolutely possessed, in a frenzy; I
know what devils jerk the strings. I know exactly the expressions of that
particular one and how the shapes move around his mouth. I know what hours
he keeps, and what hours he prefers. You ask me to return to the void.
I ask you to return to the void.
But have we ever really left? And you do not
merely ask me to return, to the one void, the one true void, and that I have
created, to map or carve out more blackness. Quite apart from this
blasphemous cartography, you ask me to be the void, to inhabit it insofar as
I can exist. And you ask me, out of these horrors, for what, otherwise,
would be the bother, to fashion life.
As would you, as it can be no other way. The
thing must be finished.
And where will you be sat when horrors never
quelled rear up with yet greater intensity, where will you be amidst the
blood and vomit and visitations? Where will you be as I shake and scream?
I will be by your side.
It is not enough.
I would never pretend that it would be.
you call me back to--what should I call it? Should I even provide names for
rudiments so belaboured of physical conceptions--size, height, heft, all the
hues a mind can imagine--that their very rootedness in this world threatens
abstraction in another, were it not the poet’s world--where that piece of
sailcloth you now bid me return to is no more composed of cross-stitches and
hems than strung together by my own lacerations, no more dotted with colours
not shake the canvas at me.
me back to an evil work. And what if some good comes of it? What manner of
“good” could that possibly be? The good of a requiem? A requiem’s
requiem--an apocalypse’s apocalypse. It is all so soiled, so sick, and still
I have looked upon it, always at night, with you ever-intoning in my ear,
and insisted it was some grand, peaceable gesture, and once or twice, you
lusty interloper, I even thought it an act of love. I shall pay for that, I
imagine. I have known I have been heading this way for some time.
And so it
I did not
drink--not to health, but still a toast. Gather the malted. (Surely you have
a bottle left). A toast to intentions, to honor, to curses and miracles, to
the indomitable spirit that makes from death, life. To faith.
play you in with some entrance music.
Wit is not
(together): Let us proceed.