Music, baroque, I hear the notes
Tie themselves into lucid knots –
Labyrinths of spectacle, ravelling all things
In sequential spirals – I am
Not tied in – but enchained –
Where others dance and court,
I am only Inwoven in ever
Denser layers of suffocating self – my
Petals too populous – my thorns, frothing
Foaming – orgiastic brambles, celebrating,
I dance alone.
I sing alone.
My notes have nothing to harmonize with
Except themselves; what I sung before being
Destroyed, effaced, by what I sing next – arrows
Fired after arrows – notes attacking notes – melodies
Savaging melodies as combatant serpents, rattling and
Shaking in metamorphosis of self-murder
I sit in the abyss, and my scroll keeps on purling,
Tapering into darkness.
There is nothing here except:
And the Words I write
The Scroll is made from skin – my Skin;
The Ink is dredged up from the unfinishable
Darkness where I lagoon. The
Words are just passengers – faery-like thoughts –
Phantasms that pass through my mind like sightseers
At theme parks – what spectacle is
Today unfurling in The Land of Poet? Is the Ferris
Wheel still up and running? Or must we go elsewhere
To be nauseated by circularity?
So, I carry on writing into darkness.
I don’t know if anyone will ever receive
These messages. I don’t know if there is
Anything beyond this darkness.
How many different kinds of darkness are there?
How many gods are there in The Pantheon of Night?
Is Light just another form of Darkness?
Is a light-bulb just an immature form of Darkness
That has not yet learned to conceal itself?
I learned to conceal myself long ago.
When the day is done, and the shifting tides
Of Darkness shimmer around themselves, I roll
Myself up in my Scroll, and sleep.
And, as I sleep, I dream – I dream of light –
I dream of Darkness no longer being afraid
To show itself – I dream of no longer Dancing
I dream of landscapes, of friendships, of cities,
Of pullulating possibilities – that the knots of
Infinity are no longer just chains, encumbrances,
But beautiful pieces of embroidery in which I am
A purposeful, important stitch.
Then I awake.
Nothing has changed.
I furl out my Scroll,
Dip my Quill into Darkness,
And hope, against the face of
All possible alternatives, that, maybe
One day, someone will finally be able
To read my handwriting.
Then the Darkness will be Loved.
And I will not dance alone.