The Doctrinaires
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. - The Wasteland
Invocation: This Work I Dedicate to all True Theosophists, In every Country,
And of every Race, For they called it forth, and for them it was recorded.
- THE SECRET DOCTRINE:THE SYNTHESIS OFSCIENCE, RELIGION, AND PHILOSOPHY by H. P. BLAVATSKY, (18 odd something).
" . . . It is a sottish presumption to disdaine and condemne that for false, which unto us seemeth to beare no show of likelihood or truth: which is an ordinarie fault in those who persuade themselves to be of more sufficiencie than the vulgar sort." Montaigne, from Blavatsky
Who is it that suffers the great
djinn fevers, cast off wedges of heat
from the maker of all warmths and favors?
Few survive the tempestuous drownings
backlogged, obscure in the mad-minded
focus, the cruel and hearty bone-diggers.
Escaping tragedy on each leg,
carrying every burden to the top,
they wait as progeny do, traitors to the end.
The foolishness of numbers, languages
and spot-checks, dramas of ascetic generations
scanning for the manifestations, cropping up.
It is a map of purgatory, they desire a way out
without the justice of asking, pleading
for patience and thirsty as lions.
Two doors.
Standers and waiters. Banner wavers, four. Jeweled courtesans.
The advertisements of heaven and hell
seen between the crushed shoulders
of the walking revival, troups wandering between
mountains, through valleys and into the deep seas,
mother Mary had her inclinations, recollections.
What a show that is seen, what a problem!
How the red of dreams is graphed again in red.
Saint Vitus in a limp stampede, race on! to
a devil in every room playing with the mirrors.
Poisons and paradises, opulent rivers above
as wide as the shores of all the seas -
the tiny maps of Gorge, as plain as day -
to taste that water is to drink. To really drink
for the first time in the eons, sealed wine
of pearl augur, aged in casks of unknown depth.
To stud the cacti with the worm
provoke the dehydration of dementia, they try to lie.
Only one cartographer has the archaica,
knows the brocade language of the fish
which shines in their skin under
the broad white road upon the sea
where some could walk, some
others could see, and those that had to,
built boats on which to flee.
Then they are the pretenders, the mocked mockers.
Salt licked paths from underwater plateaus
constant in their undertow and taking.
The bargain of rain on the tumble of soil.
Split open dry canal of the ancients,
the forgotten tongue-tied sooth
whose feet felt the mighty flow below,
the source of constant consternation,
to advance the best orations, the stock of futures
after the crowing of stones revealed: a gadget.
One big story after another, the sun sets, rises.
A big gap, light flux, curved broadbands
in the age of pirates, blue ox and steel.
Scorpion. Tiger. The year of our Lord.
Squawk-boxes of the forefathers, Topaz keepers.
No one gets out of this alive, labels perish.
Anatomy seekers and keepers, burial
experts and detectives, the borrowing of heads.
To examination tables and paintings,
the record keeping chronologers, pagans
priests and profiteers, bullies and geniuses.
The cadre of promise-takers and peace-makers,
hoteliers and pimps, giant-sketchers...
facilitators of the worst sort.
Forget what it is they make you say.
The drivers offer no solace for the unwise.
To the map-maker we must return -
naked, alone, worse for wear.
Not bad D. I thought it had a bit of that TS Eliot ring to it.
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