The Balance Of Cold


Not all are saved. Some just twist and curl their way through the whole moment. I suspected they were all part of the great moment. But it was never like that at all. The manuscripts, the lessons and all of the hermitages were redundant faces of the three fold mask of this Demiurge. All part of the great mask. Some revelled in it and were taken straight away. Taken and thrown into the fires of experience and their cries and screams were just fuel to it, just errant whispers in the schemes of things. Just that. We suffer because we love, that’s all. This love a fuel to fly higher and deeper and escape the black robes of that which would keep us within and without. The houses past the train windows blur, and she touches my hand without knowing and I cast my eyes away in case. In each case I die and travel further along the road. And rage will always lead to sweated sheets and tangled feet, a hand reaching for the water not there for starched lips, for cracked lips, for hot moist lips. Not a word shall escape my darling. I hold them within my scars and they are safe. Within me and within thee.

For what it’s worth. They castigate that man because he tries to save us. Thoughts lack from those that would insult instead of debate. The voice you think is yours is truly theirs. For their importance as the mouthpiece of the Demiurge gives them truck to suffer their words upon you. Those words are evil and twisted and you should not listen. I turn off the TV and never look at it. Never read the newspapers and never watch their words tumble like sick vomit and ached blather. 

You always fall in love in the snow?

You barely have the time I know, to placate hard edged sympathies and soft touches. Cruel winds blow and nobody answers the simple sigils for help and the need for rescue. Not yet of course but they will in the end. I suspect workings and deeper maybe needed refrains that ache and suffer within the insides of these movers. For what is a word or an idea except for gold and cash. Favours maybe and bridges built and burned the same day. They will glow on the horizon until we as well turn away and rub our eyes with the heat of it, laugh possibly and turn again to look but the glow is gone and the faces of those on the other side are soon forgotten in the shine and the pleasure of home. We sin and see the twisted echelons of the condemned, we also see the shattered shards of this experience lie heavy at our feet. And still we gather the strength we need to stand straight and look to the East with something akin to fear. For in those wastes the Demiurge has built his forsaken pile, and there he utters the name ‘John’ and all will fall at his feet and weep. For that is written also. In dark valleys, by men that would hold no truck with the soft flesh of a woman or the slick inserted finger of shafted and clumsy love. This is the ninth end and the sicker troll love of the eyes closed, the mouth sealed and the ear that holds no sound but the cry of pains.

Always in the snow. Then as soon as I do I break. Whether in the mind or the body it is always the same. The Hospital again and the bleep of the Morphine masters. The cries of those lost long ago either side of me as they die and whither. Their bodies long ago cast into the spaces between and the fingers of the demiurge. Always in the snow and cold? Always. 

Are you the novelty sent and the message returned? For all the wicked of the world will be nine of every ten souls and these are made by the hand of their maker. These nine will make you suffer and ignorance is a word they coddle, evil too, although they have no idea of its root. This much is said. I bit her breasts in some passion and left bruises although I did not mean to. But she is found and will never be returned.

Drinking coffe in this place we see the slack and the idle lack of idea and intense life left behind them. This much is true that I have the sight to see and the ears to listen, underneath the awful gasping of their days they plot to steal joy and pleasure from us. But we know them. We know our ends although as soon as you were close they placed their hands over your eyes and bid you return lest there were things within that holy meadow and the fear of it would turn a greater man than we to a heap of tears and thankless grief. So they did. But are not we woken by this effect? This ability to see through this pain and listen to the greater songs. I think so. But my body shattered though it is would keen for a moment if this sufferance was visited on another, And I would weep for you and those rivers of water salted bitter pain would be a river. At the end home again, for all paths lead there for us. But not for them.

They whittle away the days as we fuck slow in the early evening and bodies make sound too I suppose and it is muted by softness and muffled hips, the swish of lips upon lips, and the slip of delight in the colder more vicious night. Prophecy maybe, but more the lack of engagement and the sight of the sleeper. He lacks the hand that would be firm and to soften the blow his experience lingers in the spaces between the words and the shallow gasp of orgasm. The second we awake grab my hand a go. Fast across the grass towards the sun which rises now behind the canopies of green forests, the streams and rivers, the delicate meadow grass wet from the morning dew and the simpler songs that waft upon the warming air of the valley.

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