THE COVERED ROOM

THE COVERED ROOM.

Fate does not come, it is always there,

forever omnipotent.

It is sometimes personal, sometimes impersonal,

it is always unknowing,

but it marches on, it never stops.

It never fails.

　

Fate is intolerant, it waits, precariously,

stalking the short-sighted.

Where is the twilight, for these our final acts;

What whispers tell for those who act as quick-sand;

Only the pursuant trammel beats upon this landscape,

Where eyes do not see, and voices cannot tell,

In our raised yet sunken fields;

Only, I have heard something move,

In this metropolis,

This mind-scape of transient communion,

I have heard the thunderhead !

But know not of its nature,

Only that it brings fear,

Fear, and fiery waters.

We lament,

but do not lament !

Voices cold and mute,

Thoughts to solid stone.

This is no real silence,

but a chorus of dogs,

howling and whining

from behind fences,

Indifferent to the solitude,

Yard after yard.

　

What threnody

awaits

this catatonic limbo,

We cannot hope to know.

This is where fear begins;

On the edge,

Cryptic and nameless,

Paralysis upon Paralysis.

This is where Fear begins;

Mind-forest !

Dead bell,

Eclipse.

O fortune,

Thou rouse me, !

thou waketh me

like a chattering vulture !

O fortune,

Thou taketh me !

like a rag-doll.

　

Cause and effect, past to future,

Time is fate and fate is time,

Action to action shaped by the word;

We who are withered in this brittle cocoon,

On the other side of silence,

Pretend not to see our evening shadow;

We who are empty and still

shall meet at the hour

when the wind blows

the dust from behind;

For there is no providence !

　

Fate, it marches...

Fate, it marches

with a shadow that moves to stay.

Fate, it marches,

dead-eyed through every shape,

Mindless and empty,

Blank and blind....

It marches through every crack in the wall,

It obeys nothing,

Juggles a black hole.

Fate, it marches....

This hidden messiah is bleeding

in the torchlight

at the top of the stairs,

Where assassins work in the bane of the light

and waves of myopia fold in swift calamity,

And a dead knock;

Shudders through a closed door,

In the twist of the night;

When we are nonsense.

For we know not what we do.

　

Are they the same,

Those eyes that sleep inside a severed head

and walk along a hollow path;

Those eyes that fate would have for sport,

Do they not look upon themselves,

As the last twist of the knife

carves its endless knot.

For they know not what they do.

Tell me,

Who follows you from the past,

When the solitude is all,

And your mind slips away,

Tell me,

Who waits there,

On the other side of you.

For you know not what you do.

The craft of virtuosity is lifeless,

You left it grieving and bleeding !

Sterile and dry

in a proverbial world !

Is this what you reached for,

before the blinds crashed shut;

Was it the cuckoo you saw,

Or was it your own eyes,

Faceless and estranged.

The maestro of enchantment is

decomposing into a niche,

lost in the undergrowth;

Where the bane of the light,

drips,

A broken god;

Kicking at its solid solidness.

　

This is where the ocean

swallows up the desert,

And the desert absorbs the sea;

This is where the walls close in slowly;

As we conjure up demons,

and host ourselves.

Kingdoms roll up like carpets

and devour themselves.

Tell me,

Where is the configuration,

Where is the time that you left

ticking in a black oasis,

Where eyes writhe and pearls shatter,

What roots grow through this concrete solitude,

What hidden secrets fester

in the attic of your thoughts,

( real life is clandestine )

You neither know nor care;

There is only barbed wire,

Barbed wire and mud;

In a dizzy labyrinth

of scarecrow people.

We who are withered

To these stony walls,

In this hall of giant echoes,

Where the mouths are many

but the words few,

We who are empty and dry;

Stigmatised by the mirror only,

Are merciless in our denial.

Tell me,

Where do you keep your thoughts,

Are they whispers

in some far off desert,

or do you know them like an avalanche,

Tell me,

What is it that scares you so,

Oh Stigmata, Stigmata stigmata,

Stigmata in an endless field where faces never look !

Stigmata in the barren barreness of useless order !

Stigmata with your wounded heart,

kicking the dog until it bites....

Where is the fortune you left;

Barefoot down the lane,

Crying after you

in the dreary madness

of a forgotten memory,

Where are the embers that flicker,

Vaguely perceivable,

In this,

Our endless twilight

of whimpering;

This is twilights last oasis,

Here the stagnant water only dries the mouth;

Our desperate thirst is delirium

caused by delirium;

Here we cling lifeless like rotten fruit

to petrified branches;

Here the corpse-piles are stacked

not in heaps of tangled bodies;

Here the corpse-piles are empty minds,

deserted minds,

sighing, soft, soft, atrocity.

This is where the fear starts,

Petulant only, for waiting.

Where is the Eden we lost in god,

The great utopia damned by ideology;

Walk away from

this grand charade,

This craven unconscious collective,

This mesmerizing spectacle,

And I will show you a graveyard of megalomania;

I will show you

the desert in the heart of humanity.

We who are crowded

in this jungle of hermits,

Utterly without a constellation,

In the blank fear of diffident communion,

Where the desert is squeezed to pulp,

Behind blighted hearts and swollen eyes;

We who carry our legs

and walk on crutches;

Are unaware

of the highways and byways

We never answered.

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