No Time To Question But To Confess

Too much of something always makes you sick in the head a little, and I sense the rolling fear of the acid sick rise up against the back of my throat and I grab some Milk to shove it back, angrily. The simple pills I have are too far away from my hands to fetch, it would mean me sitting up and exhaling a little as i stretch and I cant do that, I don’t have the will, the strength I have in spades, but the act fails again i’m afraid, i feel as I am trapped and swaddled.

Alienated perhaps, dysfunctional certainly, a minor piece of the puzzle is missing I think, but the chair is comfortable at least and if I need the pills they are there or there is somebody to fetch them if I need them. My little living room Nurses.

Sooner a hand to fetch the things you need than a few words that make us bleed

Try again to make sense of it, we eat the forbidden bread and the liquids of secrets, we want truth but don’t even recognise it when it is presented in front of us. These stolen waters lie idle within me and yet we twist the words to our own delight. Seduced and breathed upon and yet still you do not know the real depths of hell and the top steps of Heaven. Fruit are we? Only a bite from a mouth can set the juices free and mercy released, that hand from above to settle on a sweated brow or to batter and hurt me again. Mothers still weep of course in damp churches and secreting the blasphemies or their errors in the tears that fall onto the stone floors.

But they come shining of course through the blur of salted eyes and their rays are as the sun shining through the thickest clouds, and do we not stand at last and throw open our arms to receive them before we see they are just ghosts? This is our final remembrance of the trick, the reality they spin for us is fake and a false thing. For the ghosts that offer us themselves are figments and meanderings of little worth. We hold the stories they tell us with delight and happiness and another faded ticket lies forgotten in a pocket of a Black suit hung at the back of the wardrobe. It stays there forever you know.

That intimate love will entwine, sinuous and holding and that serpent of desire will become a chain in the end that will tighten around the neck. You know we wish it so. So we wrap the garlands happily around each other before it changes and in those brief hours spent looking out over the sea and laughing at the waves we indulge ourselves of the great comedy, the greatest of shows. For are we not proud? Thinking that we are the final act upon the dreaded stage? We scrabble in the dust for answers and wish we could find them in the things we do and the acts we act but…

Vanities pure and simple, the pills just out of reach, the eager faces, the wet sweated bodies that cling to each other after falling from tall spires. Where should we live? What is the answer to it? Without diligence we scramble up the figures and ghosts that move through our lives and think perhaps they are blood sometimes and spirits another. We offer praise to this thing and coddle it tighter as we engage our years to their end. Regard nothing as true and have no sport but the final rope and the tangled end we seek.

Such is the Holy Ghost still a discarnate thing manufactured to allay the fears that spring up in the smaller hours when we despair and wrap ourselves tighter. It jests with us and we see it is still a riddle after greater minds have forked it over endlessly. So what is the truth Black Iron Philosopher? Why are the tears and weeping so attracted and so sweet? These tears turn me asunder and burns upon my forehead the hot Iron word ‘Wretch’. Seeker of nothing, twister of words, greatest liar. We find solace and love in things that will always perish, always be lost.

I dreamed for a sick while as people that I thought I loved moved around the bed with lit candles, as ghosts they were. With me locked within a feeble machine they called the physical body. It stunk and was lost and I looked only to God, on the one left hand to think about the redemptions he may offer me for my sins and on the right to smash my simple machine to pieces upon the anvil of his judgement.

I moved slow within the bed as the time come and watched them make plans and edge upon my finances and estate closer and closer as carrion birds around the gasping corpse of an animal. I choked and gasped as well and clutched the sheets tighter as that last breath fell upon the linen spotted with mine own blood.

Alas I am caught. As we progress our magic the pitfalls and traps become apparent and real, the figures of history would have us kept within this place in order to control the flows of information from the magical to the place they control. They will not countenance any equal, and that is their way. I was dead and now I am alive again and I do not know how they machined the stainless steel realities they have made to imprison me.

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