Saturday, January 19, 2008
this might be the second of a series i n the fictives known
as Orpheus series. secondary set Orpheus to Eurydice ~
And if Orpheus turned back far enough, would he turn so far, the shadow stretching his neck, that he might find the children that she bore? There. in the other place, down there in the dark funnel downward to the earth. And the sore necks might make sense then in the hindsight gathered of love (fathered of his love). Would the twisting silhouette he pulled in the darkness resemble something like Lot's daughter, and the pillar of salt might be then the pillar of desire? A question would be floated to the quester the kidnapped one and her harvests alone in her abandonment. In
places where words could not speak.
And the vowels broke. Over
across the lips .
The dancing speakers would take over pain would pay its price its price its punishment the sending down nights of wound would waken the child she held in his arms all across the sand. Where desire never met its name, its mate. Or its Irish king, in the land of the sand across the sea where Shehe had wandered broken feet with hungry soils
under them calling her name and the gaze then, his gaze, the gaze of Orpheus could not harm her, nor hinder the nights of their love once stolen back then. Back then, always back then when he could not look, could not see. Now he wants to be blind so the pain, the pain of beauty's thrust won't injure (him).
Eurydice would say the name from below as he walked up the sky pulling at the gravity of her feet. Don't look yet, my darling, don't look yet. My children would crawl at your grave then, and I would fall away for centuries, I swear. I swear and sweat she said her words like tons of heavy rock pushed over his shoulder a boulder. He could not be bolder,
bolder than her desire to surface out of the break neck speed, its pace followed up behind, its thread of walk their thread, their safety. The book they spoke-walk together. The word sprinkled its noises, its roses on them. As they staggered up the stairs, the mystery girl was waiting for them. With her dark leather suit and silver belts tied around her waist, and her cervix throbbed, she felt his innards tap and pull at her inside. Her endometria’s desire for her egg seeds. His grain self hungering down back to her, before their harvest, their fruit.
Breath at moments like that was heaven, heavy in the heaving of her pushed up forward to his lintel steps. The baby would speak in his ears, as he caught the women up, his hands arcing past the places where they disappeared. First he finds her then, night speaks past and plugging up the death trouble. She finds him, and birth is the death they must speak. What will the gaze be gentle, interstitial between them.
Her pushed up forward hips to the birthing they were giving. To the world, and the long charioted lover's body all glued in one desire delirious of its birth. No song could be theirs that was not stolen.
Father cried Mother cried baby cried Eurydice cried Orpheus cried "Adam" spoke "Eve" woke the angel flew at last finally made of flesh Now somewhere near where they lived he (Orpheus) came to meet them now that summer haunted the veins of her body. Which had captured long in that space made room for giving birth after death.
It was tired, it was morning. Heads were words filled with visions of her face. Her face like stars spun past his eyes lost too many times to the looking backward, coming back and the child sang in his arms.
Her arms too, also sang. Sang she said and rested back, relieved. Eurydice all in blur painted his sung eyes, eyes hurt with the down darkness and below. They reposed, breathed easy in the boat taking them past.
Posted by Clifford Duffy at 19.1.08