(something brighter to account for all the bleakness, written at the height of summer)
I drink the sun, Stealing draughts of its bountiful light, Fixing my gaze on the beaming one, While giants awaken beyond sight,
Bounty of the treasury of light, Gleaming corona adorned in rite.
I could alight, turn to run, But the melody here binds me, Do not turn from what’s begun, Singing thru dancing shades hazy.
About you rear tiny fissures, Pressures long since boiling, Grievances that yawn geysers, Spray from all their toiling,
Why they’ll carry you off, Settling forgotten scores, Like those foaming Goths, Roaming up to Rome’s doors, Having lost the thread of their great cause,
Why I think you’ve got some stay in you, Not to get bogged down like the rest, Easily you bear weighty history too, To be unmoved is the only test, You our little ingénue, Fire-thief, ’Tis the future to wrest,
The silo’d mind, the turning, And willful burning,
Don’t you crack while all is cracking, Don’t drown in insecurity, We’ll need all your skill in mending, All your vision and vitality, Upon which we are depending,
How fair you look when you wrestle, How bright at the world’s ending.
Handing out the finer points, To satiete the needs of the rhyme, Bending the field to ordinal joints, Bringing Mr Time in line.
For he needs-must that weedle guts, That raver, craver of flavour, That bulbous ticker out his chin juts, Outrageous keeper, bird-grand-hoarder.
Cough, cough at the damn of clock, Spurn ye little dogs, oh mortals! Little does he know the people so mock, His flagrant, flatulent foibles.
Damn him, damn him, as the clock ran, Too scared to care, hiding the words he sang, “Oh little old me, dishing out minute span, ‘Tis the want of the clock to ring and clang!”
“Bother who? Bother me? Some or tother, Ring, ring, destiny home to mother, Little old stuck on hands that flutter, Back and forth goes the time and they all natter!”
[Narrator] Clutching her stomach, hope unborn, Lorëlei retreats to the Bower, Gathering about her the Progeny swarm, Beneath her barge, her grief’s tower.
Her tears dammed, an inevitable tide, Her wrath uncloaked, her hair arrayed A mane of war, for in council confides The sinful lusting her father displayed.
Hearing the news:
Onáðon, With will to power
Melodië, Who tunefully mews
Ilmátria, Mother to future mother
The offspring Mago, Who would abuse The fragile Progeny, Would choose To cast out that usurper, Siluria, detested muse.
[Mago Speaks] “Spurned was my father In first council with the Lord. Afeared was father’s father At Onáðon, kindled sword.
Cast out of the scheme, Held in the leaguer— Oh what could have been, If our lot were not meagre!
What we would have risen, Had the Father not been Wracked with indecision, Wretched amongst children, Afflicted craven…
I, Mago, Commend we assail them.”
[Narrator] And now in hope’s hollowed chasm, The Bower did groan and become as a cage, A jealous air permeating as cosm, Like some fell miasma of rage.
Yet as it permeated it muzzled— A rage from the daughter of transgression. At the inner firmament it nuzzled, Threatening to yield a silent expression.
[Onáðon Breaks the Silence] “Dearest son, Flame of my hearth, In you have we won Free Age from dearth.
Champion of the new sun, Risen and become, Our rights are trampled, Our fates by the Weavers spun.
Our Father enchanted, Sundered from works begun By that foul temptress Undone by Siluria the doted.”
[Narrator] Mago met his father’s gaze, And pride flared in his nostrils. He bounded forward with speed to amaze Up to Lorëlei, contending her wills.
[Mago to Lorëlei] “Dearest kin, Lorëlei Up close I sense your secrets. From dearest all-mother you hide, you lie The source of all your regrets.
For now your action hath unveiled That our humble garden Stems from a primordial tale, From our Lord’s great distraction.
He, architect of our gaol A land of bounded play While he, in years hale, Left alone to frolic in the hay.
But dearest kin, Lorëlei, This is how you would have it A cage for children Too clipped to fly, A small seat for you to sit in.
For in your Bower, a nascent flower Whose indomitable power you’d wield Emergent son from immaculate womb To lord over us in our tomb.
Oh, I see you: father-sister-daughter. How your action breeds contentment But you did not factor in your laughter That we will not bound in our growing resentment.
Once more I offer here My sparking testament: Let’s free ourselves of fear, Pierce this stifling firmament.”
[Narrator] A thunderous silence grew in the garden, And into that silence stepped Ilmátria, Whose brooding intensity began to harden, Lighting the dais so all could see her and harken:
[Ilmátria Speaks] “Mago dear, you speak so firmly None can dampen your raging furnace. Your words empower me to attend grimly My estranged daughter and her waxing malice.
Withholding from mother her growing bounty The cornucopia of splendour within her. Her hidden joys, rights ripped from me Stolen love—my needs to nurture.
While she, Unceremoniously, Bears her unborn babe In sorority With Melodië That filtered and dimmed ray Of desaturated light
In quiet judgement Over my womb’s blight. While she weeps In her children’s sight Cowardly sister, would you not speak?
My daughter’s captor—my motherhood you keep. I grant her to you. I will go now And fill my womb, Hot on Mago’s tail. There is work to do.”
[Narrator] The fiery host emblazoned with glory, Casting their light throughout the hall, Marking each other as players in story, Shadows rendering, their figures loomed tall.
[Melodië Enters the Fray] “Sorrowful maid / your Silent Sister, Quite afraid / in raiment of alarm, Names gnawing / pains groaning, Do not dare / dain assail the dam.
Father’s fickle / yet fights for his plan Let him lay / while lay he can. He is surely stricken—don’t strike him now. If he is doting, let him a little.”
[Mago Replies] “Well spoken, senior More than a spectre of yourself. No wasted words; you speak cleaner Than my humble self.
My words spur to act, Yours but to delay. So elegant, matter-of-fact Now you have had your say,
You may retreat back to your tract With your daughters, Lorëlei, And lay.
You have no part in our heroic pact. I swear that even our god—I’d slay.”
[Narrator] He waited for his raucous applause, The chorus giving him his due. When he opened his eyes, searching for cause, He spied Onáðon’s eyes—coals burning blue.
Shrinking under the majesty of his father, Mago bowed and stooped. Onáðon spoke—Mago’s pride was slew:
[Onáðon Speaks] “Little son, what have you begun? In this sanctimonious place, Wielded words like weapons you’ve done— Placed on war footing our whole race.
Have you not spied the creatures Watching from the astral tier? What have they made of this preacher— Who, so eager to take up the spear, Blasphemed against father dear?”
[Narrator] Then all the host gazed at the stars, And all of them noticed motions. Those dainty Weavers in their cars Some spurred to break their devotions And descend upon the rebellious clans.
[Lorëlei, at last, speaks] “My duty is like to all the kindred It was no easy task facing the Father. Have you all become so blinded That you would spun our Lord, and rather
Take his mantle—his rule rescinded So that you could pilfer his art? Have you forgotten where you are placed Tiers beneath Emanation’s part?
In your hubris you have raced To erase our Father’s bleeding heart.
Mother—how quickly you give me up When I sought solace with Melodië. Know that I always will return To your gilded cup.
I will venture wherever you say. This bud that threatens To tear us up Know its gift is yours, Your power at play.
I pledge myself to you, Allmother, To regain our love for one another.”
[Narrator] Thus parted the Progeny and the Offspring. Their council arraigned, A will to action and heroism ring Their virtue forever stained.
I was beached upon a ring of white, Enamel rocks jutting out a gaping jaw, A rush of water almost sent me on, Through that yawning maw, While a singular terror studied my awe.
The ring was crowned in a fading grey, A second circle of sacrifice, Tiered, the Elder whales were splayed, A fetid boneyard to block my descent, They, pierced in some jagged rite, Beheld in the periphery of my mariner’s sight.
That flood of mammalian blood, Spraying out over the eye, Amidst that red mist I stood, Gazing, hazily over the obscured deep, Homunculus of the Ocean’s sigh, I, screwing my face, damming tears that would cry— I dare not weep.
As I waded into that Deep, Shambling through the whale-bone structure, Up to my knees in congealed red seep, Heralding a bloody geyser of the stuff, My throat straining from imagined stricture, Gasping, I reached for my last tincture, Washing my spirit in opiated elixir. Brief, blissful mixture.
It rose up of a sudden, Rearing, the barnacle-crusted heft, Crashing a wave, drenched me sodden, In that mingling, mired water, I swear it spoke to me on that rocky cleft, Speaking of the lonely tides—of Ides Bereft, Nascent ripples of the bleeding depths, I agape, at my heart’s theft.
Or rather, it sang of a melancholy, Of a sonorous age forgone, Reminding me of our great folly, Those stricken sailors in waking dream, Heeding the Ocean Song, Driven ever northward, sped on by that melodious wrong.
In its sadness, I basked, As time stayed the water, In music, there was I tasked, My charge ringing in my ear: Seek the iris of the eye, Bring back whale-daughter dear. Fear, fear! Rapture me from here!
No—Surrender to the Elder Song, Sonor of the Homunculus, Greet sighing eye of the Ocean, Where the Lorelei meets us, In watery embrace, find devotion.
The Flammifer’s mast folds, No hope of homeward return, Dare I dain breach the watery holds, Or die upon my sunken stern?
I have at last heard the song, And its beauty I will not spurn, My heart is already won.
Now arisen at Tyntálon, tenpenny crews, Of base and low mores, marred by broad news, Desires of plunder, and to sunder the capital, From dear land that feeds it, to feast as a Vandal.
Our kin languishes in darkness, kindness gone by gloaming, “Sate your appetite!” from slake mouths foaming, Malefactors waxing, with admonishing wit, Largess of Splendour, to Society’s writ.
Borne from liturgy, our Lady Misrule, Forever the player, Providence’s fool, See now courtly games, the gainsaid names, “Innocence!” Vultures proclaim, “Leave us our ill-gotten gains!”
Hope to nascent ethics, ennobled and true, The hour beckoning heroes, ethereal in hue, Justice to our Lady, time well-past due.
Burgeoning streets all, powder in keg, The pauper rising too, “Rue to you who made me beg!” At once wordless pacts, washing over manor row, The crowd grabbing Ser Pratt, “I’m better than this, you know!
My finery sullied, you savage glut! Up-jumped brigands, spawn of mutt! I’ll have your hands, then your tongues, And believe you me, you’re the lucky ones.
The rest I’ll split, smirk to knee, Then hastily hanged, as fruit to a tree, Believe you me, that’s where you’ll be.”
And now a hushed aura grows, goading the lord, “Go on”, As one they wonder, “Why, Lord of men, Sing us now a noble nude song!”
But soon the gent, knave-heart returning, Fearing his host, his courage now spurning, “What called he us, comely as dogs? Let’s hear him whine, lashed to the hogs!”
Laughter’s mad cheer, chiding his horror, Tearing his clothes, unsheathing his honour.
To censure the riot, marched Magister Pallid, Mincing no words, and waxing candid, “Hear you all, low rabble rousers, Abandon your folly, find this man his trousers!”
Heedless they went, worried little at all, Magister felled too, unceremonious fall, Dawning sun bearing, shining heraldry of law, The desperation drawing, diverse parties to the fore.
Through gates golden, came Maelond of Moldon, His oration bent ears, and enamoured the wanton, “Mail has passed, molasses under the mountain, Seeping through springs, to my courtly fountain.
Troubled I head, home to my blood, Finding it mingled, mired in mud, Where now is the hand, holding crown aloft? Where the heister of strings, while kingly arm gone soft?
I stand in appeal, appalled in frank alarm, That my thick water, should come close to harm. Yet as you reave, from your bold anger I seethe, Hold now to your course, as I live and breathe!
I shan’t remorse, your cause of just mort, Tear down these mercantile, misers as you ought. Leave but a seat, untrampled by common feet, When anomie is stayed, to this throne you will entreat.
It will find you as lordly, in law’s due course, Reaping of our hoard, was the strife’s true source.
Amnesty, dignity, respect through fealty, This all you will gain, if cause you take with me. Come haughty crowd, now simply hang him, With my blessing, bring this ordeal to ending.”
She was born under a great big sigh, Her bower bloomed as she breached the sky, If I say I was unfazed, it is a raging lie, When her beauty is uncaged, tears slip from my eye.
What I wouldn’t give, Oh, I wouldn’t live, Recreating that age-long cry, Of that bitter pang that split our sky.
Let’s meet, discreet, Some place untrampled by feet, Render me complete, Back to your bower, I lay at your feet.
I’d lie if I did not say, I beg at the maternal seat.
Detest me, strike me off, Oh, say you little bug, clear-off, Don’t you dare entreat, To nest at my holy feat, You so sundered from the divine, How dare you use my line, Molasses seeping from lips marred, As if you’d let it seep up to heavenly Ma?
Oh wicked me, thrash me about the head, One rush of blood and I’ll put this abed, Would that I love you, not your mum instead, My petty fortune would be better led.
I beg, prithee, give me sign, That between me and mine, There is a through-line, To the divine.
Blessed are these halls, Hallowed even, But what good is it all, When you’ve nothing, To show for it?
No measure nor means, To map or take stock, No bag of magic beans, No place between here, And the rock.
If there was something it would be here, But there isn’t, I wonder how many halls were commandeered? For nothing to dwell here, Forever. Left alone in the dark sphere, Disjointed opposites severed.
Set of nothing, Set apart, Null space, Between the art, A juncture, Conjunction, Liminal puncture, Total consumption.
You, Outside, Shoe-horned, Out past the side.
In negation sift, Splitting hairs, On the darkening rift, A Möbius strip, Of end eating start. Here you sit, Dwell you here, Dim refugee, In fading sanctuary.
You unbounded, Graceless no-thing, You raptured, suffering, Bird with no lungs, To sing.
Strain at the leaguer of these boundless bounds, Suffer the structure of these lands, Ye null vagrant unsound.
The Emergent Sea 