Reckless Writing Reads the Riot Act
Daimons and Demi-gods Conclude the Pact
Sonnets Snore by the Sea's Silver Shore
Death Brings his own Bottle and Knocks at the Door
Let's write something. Let's Open Our Souls to those hellish demons that all the kids on the street are raving about these days. Let's ride the back of the shadow that runs across the face of the Earth, hotly pursued by the sun. Let's be animals that tear flesh from the bodies of tax consultants, fire marshalls, and lie detector salesmen. Let's do and be all the things are are forbidden to the children of the day. For the day that bore us is now cloudy and the nights seem much brighter and we were always such ungrateful little wretches then, weren't we?
Let's you and I tear ferociously at each other 'till the walls of our dream-home-love-cottage are stained by an even layer of blood. Let's you and I heal each other miraculously with that blood and turn this ravaged home of ours into the Portable Throne of God. Let's leave this place... it smells of burning memories and young hopes made false.
I turn my eyes away from you. Your face has taken on an unwholesome glow that tells me that your soul has long since departed. For once, I do not ask you how my face looks to you. I am afraid to hear of the resemblance I may yet bear to you. And yet, I hear your voice... it is an unwelcome intrusion on my despair. Your voice applauds my wailings. You say that my future is in the bag... that my career has spread before your eyes likes Moses's vision of the Promised Land.
I will have none of it, but I'm afraid I've had all of it. That was thirty years ago. I am now the supreme patsy. Those intervening years were exciting, I grant you. I would not be so old, so heartless, so drained of spirit if it were not for you. Those were years filled with daring escapes, miraculous rescues, stunning defeats and cruel betrayals. Mostly, they were years of betrayal. Now, I walk...