Iago's FeastNew Year. Wanderjahr.
Anachronistic clocks strike the Ides of March
And the Sad April Fool turns his back on love.
So long the night and so long to the fight
As mocking pity greets itself.
All fear. Failed seer.
Medea-like, my anima hath cooked
Cassandra up, her entrails speaking mute.
My auguries I spent while reading 'neath the sheets;
A younger child who died.
Lenten feast. Beltaine beast.
My hope is broken on Catherine Wheel of fate
And fortune, moth wings flutt'ring down to hell.
Icarus' sin was not to fly too high
But to harness Father's wings to hope.
Lots are drawn. Curtains torn.
Success was mine, or so they said; my Prom
Date was picked for me. No vestal garb
For men is recognized. Seven years
Until the New Year's Quest.
Syrinx prance. Pan's own dance.
On which did salt taste best - Lot's daughters or wife?
I sought outside my kith and kin. A Dancer
Was first. Priapus' curse arrested me.
Only now have I found surcease.
Wedding light. Midsummer's fright.
At home is beauty; now sleeping lies my mate
While vine I stalk, and tortured Melchizedek.
To know love, I need but homeward go -
The outer darkness sings.
Corbies two. Ravens three.
Will horse and hawk and hound survive my plight?
Orpheus failed; Sir Orfeo found his Heurodis.
Will hate of self abate and let me turn from here
And curl next to my love?
copyright 5 April 2000
by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw;
written in Birmingham at Sacrament
(a goth gathering).