Tale imagine a punto mi rendea
ciò ch’io udiva, qual prender si suole
quando a cantar con organi si stea;
ch’or sì or no s’intendon le parole
(Purgatorio, Canto X, 96-100)
Requiem for Verbum’s soul:
Alls there is, Alls there was, Alls there will,
Be a Word.
Bemoaned from the spectre’s raptured lips rasping from the æther,
Pervading absurdities from tarnished soils of war sickened plains.
A bouquet-filled phrase clear as night, permeates the concert hall,
The chorus strains a final melody as the chant begins:
— Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine
Waking in nosegays rife with creamy silk-skinned Oleanders,
A forest deep in Winter Aconitum shimmering Virginity in magenta buttercups,
Neighboured by a ballet of innocent murderers conceited as Lilies of the Valley,
An orchestra trumpeting out the Mass for Uriel’s Brugmansia,
Echoing, from the deep,
— Bedenke, dass du sterben musst
Fronts a flock of Belladonna, rich in poisonous, thieving beauty.
Smelling sweet phrases and sprays stagnating the husk of a former friend,
Stolen from a nine-day trip where Spring’s callous pants reign no more.
As Summer thaws Wintery nights rife with avalanches cascading down.
From Lust to Envy peccatum is seven times wiped from your brow
As past Gold and Silver keyed gated you fall preparing for your nine-day sail.
Crescendo approaches as the vocal cords begin to stiff, begging to strain out
The final notes:
— Kyrie, eleison!
Inelegance, I say, was their folly as no rest waits for the damned.
And, none of Micah’s vines or sweet, ripe figs deigned to tantalise tongues.
For in Pandemonium, seat of all concentric circles, they cluelessly ponder,
Wondering how to ascend their nine-night fall while at the ninth hour,
Darkened, utterly, darkened no radiance of any sun of mine could
Pierce the infinite stagnancy surrounding that subterranean smog:
Around the silent hearth a hearty broth bubbles away — no hands to share.
Debating the nature of discourse, they wrangle:
Mephistopheles the cunning, spewing salacious songs of sorrow,
— Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Dasein
While Moloch, the mollusc, wrestles with perpetual wars for inaccessible gains,
Mammon remains content… HOW DULL.
And Beelzebub, first loser to Satan sets his eyes on his master, following to serve his turn,
like a Falcon escaping the Falconer. I digress out of that cryonic lake and return to my parable.
May-to-be: To die, to sleep
Perchance, to dream, perchance absurd
To slumber in reason,
Producing Bilwin, Alp, Erdhenne, Nachmahr of the highest orders
Said I shifting, off my immortal coil
Blistering god-forsaken heat has starved you all for forty nights,
Dust clinging to your throats like mustard gas descending the trenches,
Invading the quagmire, you beg for rain.
But in the mirage-induced copious oasis azure skies rife with Helios’ might rain above you
That scent… that pungency… that Petrichor fills your gaping nostril and the Himmel ruptures.
I hear a thousand voices cry out, crooning out, chanting out,
— Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla.
FOILED! You all die — Even Willy,
He died prancing and weaving a tapestry,
Of his waltzed verse and prose.
One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.
Alas, my immortality lacks that virtuosity;
Such symbiosis with a bow is bought and sold by my opposite;
He can pluck your strings Paganini, tickle your ivories Liszt.
Alas, I cannot imitate such personable wonders.
Perhaps bested he was, his nemesis confined to her room
Barred from libraries but no gate, lock or bolt could siege her inner castle,
I oft contradict myself, yet, I proclaim to be no great pen smith,
Please, explore the caverns and vestiges of my ek-istance;
— “η λέξη, η λέξη, η λέξη”
Find no string to guide you from that labyrinth,
You are all tuned to that string, to that pitch.
Even the Bard.
did i | i did.
first hear, in the land of milk and honey.
Where bounteous cornucopias filled famished stomachs endlessly,
Paradiso — You might say,
Thought to be lost, true, in time and place
But not in word.
For what was first spoken at the beginning,
Traversed backwards in time — no forwards.
Through oaken rings expanding as the cold Earth follows the light,
Like moths to a flame.
From Sinai to Golgotha, you ponder and lament,
From Lethe to Cocytus, you forget and wail,
From Duat to Chaos, you die and die, again.
Time is so very confusing isn’t it?
My word, heard he,
I am sure,
So pure and affirmed she affeered,
Reared from rib to slaughter.
An echo of a raspy hiss returned from nine days since gone.
Then with a rat-a-tat-tat…
Tattarrattat, croaking the door opened and out slithered the word.
Alls there was, now, tattarrattats.
Hunted she was, ay,
My radiant sun limed her with his
Erudite bitter fruits of thought.
She is prey and ours to hunt,
But is still ours to pray.
Inelegant this all is,
Alas made in my image they were,
unheard and shutout into the wilderness.
While towers of babel hiss,
Sowing entropy out of bitter ash, breeding
Withered lands to further their arms until two-by-two,
Following him from an exodus of smothering and suffocating blankets of blue consuming the globe over.
I say now, needing a whisky on the rocks,
— Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
My word — there from the beginning:
“si` tosto come l’ultima parola
la benedetta fiamma dir tolse,
a rotar comicio` la santa mola;”
Alls there was, will be is: entropy.
Your antonyms of good and bad, right and wrong, holy and sin;
Are far too oft spurred from your chapped hopeful lips.
I prefer to think in elegance and its lack of,
I guess understood my son did.
I remain a word spurred from your lips
Always I remain.
In jest, I leave one final lie of advice:
Dulce et Decorum est Pro deus mori.
‘Exactly such an image rendered me
That which I heard, as we are wont to catch,
When people singing with the organ stand;
For now, we hear, and now hear not, the words.’
(Purgatorio Canto X, lines 96-100)
‘Eternal rest give unto them, O Lord’
‘Remember, that you have to die’
‘Lord, have mercy on us,
Christ have mercy on us,
Lord have mercy on us.’
(see Kyrie, from Vulgate Latin Requiem text)
‘Everything transitory is an existence’
(Taken, and altered, from Goethe’s Faust, Part 1)
‘This day, this day of wrath,
Shall consume the world in ashes,
As foretold by David and the Sibyl’
(see Sequentia: Dies Irae, from Vulgate Latin Requiem text)
‘The Word’, In ancient Greek from Homer’s Odyssey
‘The written book shall be brought,
In which all is contained,
Whereby the world shall the judged.’
(see Sequentia: Dies Irae, from Vulgate Latin Requiem text)
‘Soon, as the blessed flame had taken up
The final word to give it utterance,
Began the holy millstone to revolve,’
(Paradiso canto XII, 1-3)
‘It is sweet and proper to die for your God’