She loves me
She loves me not
She loves me
She loves me not
When did everything become so fragile
and did talking stop being enough
I avoid converting to party to the debate
preserving my objectivity simultaneously
reluctant to accept conflict
to accept defeat
and count hair line fractures.
When did fragility invade everything
and conversation draw to a halt
a word in actions
as actions ignore words.
Choose your own priorities
undermine those of others
until they break
then run and hide, cowardly.
When did fragility lose fragility
beyond the point of no return
the cement become unstuck
the fire climb the capillaries
drawn towards a feeling of entropy
a destructive force finally
but blind to its wrongs definitely.
All telling words, telling of all that was to tell of having studied every last scale on the dragon’s back. Bad ways and worse methods. Thoughts of mockery. What to do with the dewy rose inspiration of an early morning investigation?
A tormenting treatment, a red back, unshifting. Patiently blood warming, who dares cower in leafy shade? Red dragon, sleeping rock. Harsh cemetery, dry scales. Cling to the walls, pray for midday plus one. When will the street be half covered with cool.
See the rocky back, via alley after alley. Side street. Burgandy back. Lifeless lizard, soothing sun. Take the overseer’s piercing ray, perhaps the dragon does, on another level. A blood warming frequency. Perhaps just waiting, resting on a soft white stomach on a cool valley floor. Drinking water from the river.
Somewhat shallow, call covering, tepid temperature. What of the cool breeze that fleets through the empty ribs of the valley? Chilling to a point. Firing its way through various flaws and weak points. Interstitial. Not fiery breath, nor smoky trails.
Where is its fire? Based on precious metals and stolen from within? Coin operated? The poverty of the people no longer freezes the fire that used to burn inside. They ignorantly clipped innocent wings. Yet they will fly once again. Soaring the lengths of the Andean aviary, power ever returned. Lived to see another day.
More than one gunfight took place here, more than one reason put the dragon there, the choice of all the world. Option, to sleep in Tupiza. To cleave not the wanderlust surgically from this man’s very incentive to live. Under any words, low frequency breathing and seismic inquietude. The red arched back in pretence of rock hummed a frequency. The real treasures that shouldn’t be mined, a dragon’s diaphragm at its resonant frequency. Only the few know the sound, despite us all hearing it.
Which will find the truth? He hopes all. He hopes none. He hopes for the revival of the red dragon. For now nothing is known. To walk to the neck, climb the head in the mind. Aim for the white cross shallow in the dragon’s nape. Fall in the mind’s eye, blank of oxygen and struggle and vertical efforts. Reach, arms thrown, looking for support, around the shoulders of the cross. It was weak, its basis was basic. It folds. It breaks in the arms. The wings are liberated.
Just came across these words from Emile Zola’s Lourdes, which make my spine tingle (English translation below):
Cette religion de la souffrance humaine, ce rachat par la souffrance, n’était-ce pas encore un leurre, une aggravation continue de la douleur et de la misère ? Il est lâche et dangereux de laisser vivre la superstition. La tolérer, l’accepter, c’est recommencer éternellement les siècles mauvais. Elle affaiblit, elle abêtit, les tares dévotes que l’hérédité lègue font des générations humiliées et craintives, des peuples dégénérés et dociles, toute une proie aisée aux puissants de ce monde. On exploite les peuples, on les vole, on les mange, quand ils ont mis l’effort de leur volonté dans la seule conquête de l’autre vie…
knowing that this is our real legacy:
“This religion of human suffering… was this not yet another lure, a continual aggravation of pain and misery? It is cowardly and dangerous to allow superstition to live. To tolerate, to accept it is to begin the dark evil ages for ever afresh. It weakens and stupefies… the sanctimoniousness bequeathed by heredity produces humiliated, timorous generations, decadent and docile nations, who are an easy prey to the powerful of the earth.” [trans. Ernest Aired Vizetelly, Lourdes, Prometheus Books, 2000, 484-485]
It’s called the ‘Tower’ of Babel for a reason. The idea is that the tower is great because it contains all of humanity but that means there will always be people who are further up the tower and always others just joining. This doesn’t create a community in any normal understanding of the word. It just creates a linear hierarchy. Were it the arborescent tree of Babel, you would have different branches and many people on the same level, each bearing specialised knowledge.
But the path around the tower goes up only, and everyone is in order. Any knowledge gleaned at the top can only be passed back one by one, and we all know what happens when a message gets passed back one by one: it often changes and what means more to the Tower than its image. The detail is much more complex and much more worrying than one might at first think, especially when those considering joining are receiving mixed messages.