Monday, March 23, 2015

Wretched Bells

I think by Maurice de Vlaminck?
Aimless peals shimmy down  cobbles, away from anything like a church, seeking beautiful drunk, sweaty naked people. Only soot. Chimes grind slowly across roofs of fortress, palace, and cloister, over ditches made of mashed and fluid once-homestead, shaking art down from ceilings of great places like dust in an hourglass, tears of a statue, rolling on a great millwheel,  kang kun kang kun kang                 kang

Down where the people would be is terrified scrambling, screamless mouthing, shadows and hollows of people and beings, shadow dogs, hollow birds, almost cats, they go nowhere with haste. Compelled to war, propelled to action, imperiled by the claps of a doom which came already, once, in a little town all green, ground down now all brown. Overseen by silk-threaded orchards, where spins fog the hillock cool. Inhabited by panic. Centeral to dread of a countryside. Downstream from the cursed place where children all vanish and dissolve.

Beneath tip press of a dark midday finger. Below throat of the ever-bellowing Chapel.

"We pray to the gods. They do not answer our prayers. Gods do not hate us, else they ruin us. We must reach farther to touch the gods, and speak quieter." Archenius Primus, named Followich Galendrood, once Pot Stik Ham, man under sun for the creators and fuckers of the universe.

We will glory the gods.
We will please the gods.
We will be heard by the gods.
We will be heard by the gods.
We will raise a temple.
We will raise a noise.
We will raise our voices.
We will raise a whisper.
We will whisper we love you.
We will hear their reply.
We will hear their reply.

Deep lay a poison though it may continue to strain, to wound, to kill, and oldest poison buried deepest in man earth and god is rage that's made of need. Hate of love.

Archenius Primus made him a place where no wind, no echo, no chirp or hum, no scrape could be heard, nothing, save the perfect, thin, low, humble, penitent whisper, and this humble throat clawed ragged through the passing stormclouds. Followich Galendrood set him there a bell, so all would know that he, that he, that Pot Stik Ham, had heard gods.

A man may be petty without being stupid, a man may be ambitious without going mad. These were not the case of Pot Stik Ham, who had no eye for patterns, who had no patois in foresight.

He built him a perfect throat. He set himself there a bell.
He whispered.

It is a pain which lasts forever, botfly in the wood and skin of the city. On distant ranges and peaks sage paladins and heartached crusaders look, seeing the Chapel fallen into sorrow and death, seeing a kingdom past misery's reach these last many years, yet not. An outline people, a scribbled corpse fear, running forever, from and to nothing, in always throes of mortal finality. Sin which must cleanse from the world, constant ringing of alarm, pain, hope and prophecy and love and a man and the ruin of the gods. It is shaking apart. It is crushing beneath. They champions of charity look on at the sad shadow play.

They ride past. They hear it yet for leagues.