Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Christos Beest, O9A, ONA, Order of Nine Angles
A N T A R E S
Christos Beest
I
Where love beckons, arson calls. The fallow ship that in less stately times, did cut its way through passion with oafishness, has, with the aid of muse and pen, become an elaborate galleon. Other less native ships are likely to see and yet, for all their bus and blunder – impressive to the thigh I admit – they do return to the port and reconsider at the drawing board. These are nightly times, darksome and covet, where a swan’s tail doth sparkle with homogenous water; unfold me if you will, for I know it hath both stellar and terrestrial counterparts. I know also that love within two eyes is also divine, and yea, like that distant star breaking upon the shores, or the moon’s gradient, its tides extracting, the conjoining of two gates is worthy of all the spoils of man.
How could Wyrd be so met? No fortune is there to take away the seed of spirit; to destiny look now, for it is a mighty fool. Though rabbits do multiply with a sullen eye, what joy crowns the union of man and beast? Man hath reason and the beast doth flower imperceptively, for it knows only what it sees: aye, a joy indeed.
But of the greatest joy do I sing oft; for it is between my love and me where lyric doth fall short like wingless sparrows – sparrows that dream about thee. Verily this creature is no boon to the sun, that clumsy ball of bombast; no hushed lyric from that idiot globe. The sparrow doth, in its pursuit of flight, seek the Moon to quarterize its wounds, knowing as teardrops fall, that the Moon doth breathe tickets to the clouds. Let the clouds not be illuminated by gold, but as water charges an and sweeps across the brittle always, silver doth thread its way through the tyrian vestement. Beating in couplets, there is no way that it is – who understands that which doth not pour out elegance to fashion the impassioned whisper that shades ebullience? Where there is imbecilic dualism, there is panic and failure. For man doth build love as a house for weather. For woman, the lock may be shattered … but there are mysteries for both, which only the wise may see.
II
Time hath bred a flame worthy of Hell’s greatest heartache; no hushed casket contains my soul – what manner of flame is this which spins from my once forgotten frame? In pursuit of the spiritual did I become dislocated: a walking and ennunciating moribund mannequin… how the raven did circle above in distaff! Verily a courtly reminder of the fragile bone that causes a thread to finality; but what is this life if not the presence of solidity, the white spaces where shapes once existed do reveal an essence for those with eyes to see. And mine own eyes see the richness of this being, the vibrance of the grass scudding beneath my feet. Grass may scud as and when I rush over it, rush over with such joy – hungry grass! Yea, I know that even the grass craves a joint of rain, the long patches obscuring once where a meal was set upon.
I do know the hunger of all things and it is a glad hunger! Colours now dazzle where once there was grey reason… Look! The trees are such fine shapes, they stoop to tell of a life in nitrate, of their favourite pastimes – the trees are literate! They read their own leaves, the print is noble and bears witness to much irony! Oh sweet excellence, how few do ride in thy starry strangle hold. Tonight songs will be sung to touch numinosity; a Moon shall rise over corn and many inanimates will be accorded greetings. But what inactivity shall follow? What creates vacuuity? Within and without, one creative act will alter the shape of things as only a boat of animals on a shiny sea could know.
But who will make life their art? Now, how the stars do sparkle, rippling the water like the taut facial expression of an entrailed gibbon. I am abandoned to this … there are no words as we project onto animals the qualities of humans. I am touched by Eros, bells remembering my heart weaved into a gift of wicker – I offer it to the one who hath stirred the ivory spinning pin. Tears hath dyed the tapestry and laughter, laughter cracks the dawn! Midnight alone ploughs the field, the darkling owner of that primal rhomboid tractor is elusive of features, cloaked as it may in forbidden and diverse sonnets. Speech carries no bounty, all images retire as Spring opens a way, doors loosen, an intersection made …
And with the clattering of words, indeed by their presence, I give myself up finally in silence. For in oblivion, a strangely shaped ruby may be seen – and what is felt? It is to love that I give myself and to she who embodies this, my muse, my life I dedicate. What is achieved alone is a half journey.
To love therefore, since times are recalled for they do last forever.
III
Now the evening shrouds a clear deceit – but what is deceived? The two of us, close, as is said, the world revolves outside. Yet birds sing to us and the leaves embellish our song. Saccharine lilts in our hearts – something is earthed inside, each the others home – if such is the way, then I worship thee I worship thee who sways me. Your hair still wet frames thy flickering gaze: Paradise stands a path away, yet there are many routes and my trembling form, barely present, seeks with helpless eyes that trusted way.
She cares that I live, that alone I cause disharmony to her tomorrows. We both seek refuge from emptiness and therefore provide a mutual port – is it for myself that love is cast? By her eyes I do know the answer and yet I do not falter for mine own do burn with the same. Here is the deceit that if acknowledged any other way than floating harmony, would perturb.
I do in silence, beneath the smoking tree, know there is ever one end unless our stars do create the same firmament that flows with a natural order – where there is almost effortless change. Is this my chosen door to life? The choice is made by more than one. I do say, in evening, that strangest of words, love; I do love thee for all my reasons. Cast on parchment shall we ink our smiles in mutual agreement, knowing other reasons unsaid. Time alone tells all and let us not pretend we know not.
IV
To love … what is that exactly? Time and time does not reveal in the minds what such passion is; by this silence the strongest fall sick, confusion tearing at the soul like an insane beast – through the eyes of beasts, there is no end in sight. The cracking of the ultimately immobile, only an impassioned dent, for the walls dare not be removed. To run far from the object that inspires the untranslatable cannot be so amiss! I need to be reassured in this! To this terrible awning do I return alone, for it is of my own design; the walls, sheer and constricting are the giblets of my mind. I breathe and feel more pain …
Death, a blank option awaits by the door; the key I cannot identify, all is so homely and yet the mould that cast the metal contained an unsure ingredient, an unnerving interlude in the possible erratum of the dream. I would die and have all and nothing – for names in this wretched world amount to naught. The numinosity within counts for something greater, yet only this can be gradually attained, through the worst of experiences and not by their hiding. To build, to build with pain and fear; this is a constant knowledge which tears cannot deny and yet I feel older than the sea and I weary. I wish to disappear, to sleep – for life is a wound, reopened, festering until it kills with the poison of love and pain and all that comes under the umbrella of sensation. Your words, empty letters, never once expressing, have hurt the self of me that Cannot empathise. I lie bloodied in my hall of mirrors.
There comes thrice no words in this season: for I sit stabbed, diseased, raging like a giant curtain! The sky is mine to rend – the sky! It knocks thrice and throws me restless! The water of this evening is a festering wave to my heart – carved in pieces through rapture! The slightest light perturbs – who will be my friend in such a season! They scatter like lens at my jabbering, which in one instant inspires more than one good time – a pleasing broth – but in others, I am rolling, broken, vital! My hands would kill for this!
There it is … the real moment; that which cannot be contained. I know it now and the joy it creates means to kill – or I succumb! The fabric rips, the storm doth batter this raft yet I hang on!
I love, so I cannot live. I cannot tell you …
Burdened therefore with the baggage of tragedy, I fall inwards; to what I do not know – only the pain and wounded curling do I expect.
I die though live: my tears are still warm. In fact, they burn . . .
V
Death holds no opinion. The blank rage of minions stirs not the breast of the leopard.
Now I know the Sun; now its fruit doth stain my mouth. For suffering is a prelude to understanding and I have arrived! Washed, unexpected, upon a shore, its sands were undoubted, its flowers a glorious statement of truth! Simple, undeniable – a beauty not of my creation, but of my life, naturally. And how I marvel at myself, born anew. For there are experiences that are outside and move within – she moves within! I see a greater picture! Free in the greatest surety I have known.
I did battle by my own deceptions and now you stand before me, your smile alone fills my world. What can I do to express this? Simply, let me look into your eyes, for there are no images to cage. – we dance, we are inspiration and we are beyond death.
I love you as I look now to the Sun, and know within my heart, every creature towards love roams free … together.
