Bezpłatny fragment - The Extratemporal Dance

…

„And We Chime (The Seductive Overture)”

the cloudcapt dead o’ night cast tanzanite alive,

and the foreplay in a fire opal lay hath just rhym’d,

as the citrine lyghts o’ the beacons chronological

notify us the ’membrance o’ goodnight,

and we are lull’d by the fabrics slipping out

off the swaying hessonite ardent silhouettes to hie

satin chemise o’ a dark coffee shade

— the beverage thou adorest to consume;

the consummation seemeth succulent tonight, too;

the bronze o’ my lingerie and my skin weave

so dost thou wyth me as thy cloud nine e’en if nay pristine

thy blue cotton shirt like thine eyes cerulean

unbutton’d as if throwing stones were the seas

— yet my over the moon and my breeze o’ relief;

and contemporaneous our consents resound;

and coeval our act o' darkness as so one is hight

e’en an we sense but the rapt shafts o' a gold-bright chime

yet forsooth all the beacons and lyghts went out

— sheepish and fordimm’d by dint o' our radiance fine;

gloom into glam once we surround each other

like strongholds root’d and bound

— Mother Earth alive to that,

as she's a goddess aboue and arownd

styll prone to crashing into each other like tides;

wyth both veracious love and lust expos’d we are,

so let thou not the stardust rust —

thine eyne addeeméd and amindéd enow

to areach and beclose the extramundane aze evok'd

yet extinguish — my benign, let us not

— allow us na to burn out to the core

let thou the bridebed

adornéd be wyth the rags' glide;

moist — nay I e’er left wythowt, tho’ melt’d na hitherto

— sob thou na creeks nor cascades,

for it an’t my death afaint, be it per’lous, be it not;

I haven’t obtain’d the way of all the Earth gone;

wyth thy delight adream merely I benedight,

for, my carnal copesmate

to disgarland my corse to the core daisiéd ne’ermore,

as a moonglade

the eve’s grand orb upon it doth shine

— dost thou trust me or not?

we are phoenixes aligned,

and no thunder teareth us asunder,

so shed thou not tears for it, either;

my moonlight, my stars, a sunshine o' mine

— mornward have me transfix’d divine

as the cosmos's unfathomed myght;

inwreathe me the embosom o' thine

„Mære”

once a telluric cupola her mantle

o’ fainéant orbs dustéd hath,

the welkin’s tumble further

— into darkling’s embosom which smothereth —

circummur’d — cimmerianiz'd

— the ghoulish naiad’s theft

in the immensity of blackness clad!;

a remembrancer o’ thine come — Mære yclept;

hath the macabre cabaret possess’d thee afeared

or split thy moonstruck noctambulist's sides to a jest?

a yellow lyght’s endeavor so ne’er befallen to red

glaucous emergeth as the yerth

pristine adamant doth shine

like a crescent o' a scimitar stain’d

wyth the everywhither blood it bled for her brazen kind

— the green hue to symbolize the moss

onto the grave o’ hope,

and the blue one is wha’ thy devils approach;

and hath the flesh got enow o’

the vainglory diminish’d to gainsay

the praise natheless? dare I say it hath not —

thy naysay timid, yet burst forth do I eavesdrop?;

open thy door, homefelt art thou,

yet imperil’d as pearls o’ rain

begetters to the aroma o’ the orient dead become;

Mære creepeth hither, wilt thou

outbreast her heightless voice?;

into one musical canon our articulations yoke;

alow — below — allow I — bellow thy note! -…

air out; na to quell! -…

b*tch, praytell, praytell, praytell

the fable obsolete;

barking dogs seldom bite,

and dead men tell no tales;

the liberation off the mare-ride

above thy bend; a ride-or-die literatim fain

— heads I win, tails thou losest;

at the top o’ my lungs…

mine are your swan neck and a chest opulent

to snath the gulp of air;

angel o' death thou art;

against the clock withal! -…

empty vessels make the most sound, oh, how sad!;

na I all-a-mort, na I at death’s door…

I, wedlock’d wyth Chronos and Father Time,

anon clad thee in widow’s weeds to bemourn out

thy sheets an so lief thou art!

I a wife at heart-…

at devil’s-dozenth sixes and sevens;

a mortuary becometh the folk's aisle

— egad, amain awaken'd I accord,

ere long, archdeviless vile, avaunt!

„The Bewitching Hour (To The Letter)”

awakening fro' the burian o' a nightmare

to thy face and grip is such a solace unfeign’d,

and thy lip language whilom thou in motion art,

so albeit my own mouth unto shiver and silence shut

— thine lips aforesaid and their tongue tast’d and felt

o, my dearheart, na merely do they fro' afar lipread dwell

the sweat wyth the anxiety

to slowly descend its churlishness o' yore be

thou wipest away like an archangel fro' my bree;

the evenfall into the morningtide anon

bemeant nou na to cease the glim untimely

'tis fornigh, fatéd it shall chance as they come,

all o'er hell’s half acre, tho' an't it an imp o' a foe

wha' to mar me belast and beshadowéd

thou alleviatest like an arrow fro' a bow

whylest a shaft o' time striketh me demiséd;

thy words beliest thou ne’er, my cordial soul

forthan bewitching the witching hour doth enwrite

[to the letter] thy fondness once my woe cometh so

[to the letter] thy vigilance whylest attry be my shadow

[to the letter] thy stream unto my ghyll o' internality

[to the letter] thy reign o' a cerebral and soul'd betweenity

howbeit an perchance canst thou

the line written or drawn more or less nigh

wyth thine ink overspill; o’er wha'

beforehand is as sharp as a falcata

wrought and consign’d forbye

— beknow I for luridity thou predestinest it not

the hearth o' thine heart and arms

lucidity verily doth me behest;

tranquility forsooth doth me behight;

in the clasp to the bosom o' thine —

indeed begrip’d I safe and sound for aye

’ow thou apt to bewitch — the craft o’thine eldritch,

altho’ ethereal so and a spiritual wight akin —

ne’er ere have I wyth my chestnut eyne beseen,

nor e’en in a dwam shut-ey’d daft durst beseech

lithe in its fervency at no time begg’d for

— befalleth the aesthesia

harmonious in its maelstrom o' an endless encore

— playeth the fantasia,

and into the beauty o' yore

presentness and hereafter are happy to mell,

albeit now the lattermost one na o' a cist

nor o' a sepulchre dolomite,

since nought carv’d in stone hath been yet;

we chime, we chime, we chime radiant

always on the dot — circadian — round the clock

ontill hell freezeth o’er; awfully in senses multiple

to the letter: my dearheart touchable

hold me tight so we register more…

„Immortality”

and maugre

immortality

deathlessness

in this respect

equaleth not

I love

thee

to death,

so

it will ne’er

completely take

thee

fro' me

'paltry is life’s ephemerality,

natheless not its quality…'

— 'tis a fayth I dare possess

as the river bank I cross lone

— wythowt thee as we used to in days o' yore,

for meadows o' heaven and bridges o' rainbow

on the other side o' the creek thou experiencest

to and fro' — behedg’d ne’ermore;

hither and thither — hither and yon

— albeit the former is such a term

o' the vicinity towardes me forlorn

for thee howbeit

the hues o' cerulean and fern

since the independence once ajar

ceas’d to tempt the score per’lous;

nix in orderless order

to be a burden too weightful to carry;

nought to desecrate;

to profane wyth malady nary

the portal to perpetuity

— damnéd to me and divine to thee I pray —

open’d its doors;

lest aught less than the paradisal paradigm!

elevenness aetat my golden child

be it o' breed be it o' not!

ail’d ne’er agen afarest thou;

waylaid by dint of it wail do I

— e’ermore fare thee well withal

'for I love thee to death, so it will ne’er

completely take thee fro' me'

dare I say in a solitary breath

— 'tis the epitaph for thee,

and thy paw prints o' the ink

— indelible on my shoulder blade

and my heart for eternity

I love thee to death, so it will ne’er

completely take thee fro' me

the twenty-second of May,

two thousand and nineteen...

„The Resurgence: Clockwise ||Extratemporal”

accoiléd — for the anslaight so rife begloss’d

atsaken — begirding utter they the acedia I shall thole

adjudgéd — bewrayer yclept blart thou canst sore

aneléd — glum bend they o’er to condole thee atgone

yet my comliest, wee ye possess the wisdom and lore

two way is the monolith I shall resurge thro' athwart;

aboon I shall be perceiv’d for a spinner of yarns

they would christen me in the waters holy, albeit cold;

by the lack o' your own virtue ye to nurture gold;

sunken ere in Lethe’s forgetfulness and armth

nou I re-awake and 'ow ye to vie the spirit anoint’d afore?

stalwart your dispute endeavor, I see you thro'

by dint o' my own bygone reflection’s effigy;

argent and dentéd like a paradigm o' a shield

— pure-intendéd as a knightess deep at heart withal;

'twas the speculum which ache and a teary dew

upon me once more or less asudden did bestow

a dissonance, a projection, aught merely for to cope

maugre the aloneness oft; a discord in sooth multiple

howbeit the billow o' a flow to my ebb into infinitude

burst once parfay I myght reiterate for you;

that jug o' water na to drown in yet to repair the vision

o' possibility ally the divisions; my parle o' concision be

— atrist ye me, utterly pure either in a heretofore

ontill my dying day or in a hereafter vault I am not,

yet crystal clearly — aware for am apt to so behold;

blead nor blood I no longer gorily bleed, yet I perceive

by gravity and eyne mendéd at the behest o' you;

yours is nonentity, but greed sole ’n’ a disguise o' grue

quotha! further bedeck your feretory;

your vanity adorn’d shall replete be;

hie, polish your jewels to mandatory glare as an horn’d

yet wherefore the glore o' mine

a sparkle like a glory galore, and your

own maketh merely a frown upon it all?

— into warfare ye fold your hands;

err doth me not such your gesture;

wha' doth quietus signify for you?

your serenity via their noiselessness doth occur?;

'love thy neighbour as thyself,' do ye recall?

— myself I behest rabid towardes me at most;

towardes the rest dogma-free belead my esse lifelong

besprenging scorn into nought — odium come na at all

— your Eden eviternity to unfold sham;

enswath’d is one in the nix-Styx lies;

your time passeth clockwise, yet what spread by you

— extratemporal maugre the reason to imply;

the resurgence as certain as the wind blows to betide

yet awake ere the wee mound o' dust

yourselves ye make pulveriz’d…

„Borne In Upon”

a dove-heart’d dearheart o’ mine,

the acerbity o’ me towardes whom befallen

e’er so severe; the goods straight nay dernéd

come to pass shall be albeit

— o, bitter doth the life’s kineyerd sway;

hereof thy love an antidote cannot make by itself

thine embosom the disorder o’mine cannot

incessantly on its lonesome descend,

maugre our togetherness’s overload —

into its quicksand jocund we myght dissolve as a blend;

verily I want to anoint’d become by dint of

waters diverse and more or less pure, tho’

wyth our silhouettes doing each other laud

parfay the quagmire wyth thee is more bearable;

aye, amain how thou emboldenest wyth care

and iwis not but a mite accrueth

the force agin wha’ to bebother me, my amiable

to surround come what may and will;

ere the anxiety — the anxiety eft;

eftsoons my grounding via thy kiss;

forthwith the victory occurreth not —

thy succor’s validity causeth not vividity o’ a cure,

yet wyth thee by my side I am cognizant of

its distance within my grasp,

and the grasp shall my underneath at liberty procure

and the anxiety eke ne’ermore;

wee steps so the path cover’d dimisheth it attunable

whispering to thee na more expos’d to be affright

— withdraw do I, adraw do I wyth a moan slight;

the rupture into rapture evolv’d,

e’en if na via unison o' a sensual feature; styll intimate;

for an common well-being remaineth attain’d not

— nought possible, nil e’er endeavor’d,

adrawn indeed forthright; I the creature

to thee prioritiz’d be, and thou art mine, cinnamon;

aside fro' - once we in lustful unity o' volition mutual -

borne in upon me 'n' thee for it an’t a smitch, my dear

but ignition o' a parallel fire and hearts set to and on;

'tis a spring o' welfare and bliss — ours its paragon

— nou I rock back and forth, and as a palm o’mine

press’d to my ticker o' a tantivy tranquiliz’d,

I fall back into our cradle o' a bed, yet wyth thee

e’en a motion heretofore subduéd whereupon

the sheets velvet and silk clad do lull apogee;

and stare I heavenward, redundant questions dare ask

'is this but a mere fantasy fey? o, very many replay

its lay to me an so; and an it an’t a dwam bloom,

prithee, the oblivion to vanish itself allow’d

indeed be — help me, my lovekin, for it to in this way

come to life — leastwise to the 'membrance, once

alack a solitary fight triumph’d tantamount to

a battle o' a victory wreath be not o' truth forbye'

my lips part — wyth thine bind — dread doth depart

I lose the stiff posture — surrender we to exhausture

borne in upon; emotion towardes wyth no further ado;

an ado further and further as it shan’t turn me loose;

thou dost not let me go whenas wanion or ruth

as close hold me crude styll and all

...

„Tragicomical Ayenbyte”

to be the be-all and end-all — 'tis a mainspring

— the raison d'être o'mine; breaketh my fall

to seize me and clench aboon the ground exclusively

— to butter my bread on both sides my endeavor sole;

away, away, away I beaver eagerly

— eating cake I laugh wyth such my hole,

and wedding-so the full monty hath to unfold

a run in circles the stroll becometh! — I shall thole it all;

upon me! — upon me — quick-fire have it bestow’d;

— goddamn’d adrift — it cannot ripen into so!;

oh, into so it shan’t e’er metamorphose, ye gods!;

an also-ran? — the lost run o' one! — bow down!;

bow down 'fore the shatter’d sky the entirety o'

which in the yore-era thou didst reach once bold and far!

playing both sides against the middle,

yet aware for my vanquishment blore

thenceforth scatter’d foregone;

the air indiscernible, yet purloin’d fro' —

hath the difference made; the heaven and hell out o'! ;

not a gutless wonder, but a cookie so tough;

dost thou know phoenices do reborn, aye, dust to dust

— ashes to ashes forbye the entity doth betime withal!;

tragicomical ayenbyte; those circles vicious appear;

can’t the colleen cloy'd ambitious be?

„Light Under a Bushel (Don’t Hide)”

bodkin my fragile heart draconian,

ye back-cloth stars o’ mine;

refell

me until the die is cast;

all and sundry

discern

a light o’ the starlet, the writelet

zestfully dimm’d —

enlighten’d beforehand, lit ere, meek afore

ostensibly, allegedly;

my beacons,

wherefore ye either to burn out

or to cloud over allow?

weaken,

lour — ’tis what your lass metamorphoséd

the scene for aye yours,

and so all the virtue o’ the knowledgeable

so

bodkin my fragile heart draconian,

ye back-cloth stars o’mine;

na at all

your withdrawal;

a ceaseless galore

your forth e’ermore,

for ye trudge and e’en my walk is ne’ermore;

such comparison na to score

[nonessential]

yet we both once crawl’d—

we all once totter’d into lore

teares o’mine —

a pitter-patter on the flatness o’ the roof

and once ye howl —

heaven and earth mov’d within deluge

touch’d, mov’d, clutch’d, groov’d

grasp’d, bloom’d, carv’d, starv’d

fed up, yet behoov’d

to the hilt

bodkin me —

the first fiddle play’d

for a mo

a privilege and an honor was

yet all lights

vanish at the end o’ the day,

and a red-letter one

o’ mine to-day doth arrive

— a dead clock

is right twice a day

the last curtain falleth down

— the final mortarboard

certes at the drop of a hat

fainéant plummet’d toward

„Tragicomical Ayenbyte (Reprise)”

to be the be-all and end-all — 'tis a mainspring

— the raison d'être o’mine; breaketh my fall

to seize me and clench aboon the ground exclusively

breaketh thy fall, holdeth thee so close

— oh my doll, exclusively to haul off

and slam thee unto nothingness dole

— to butter my bread on both sides my endeavor sole;

away, away, away I beaver eagerly

— eating cake I laugh wyth such my hole,

and wedding-so the full monty hath to unfold

the tighten’d stomach eateth no ort

and the lips bitten and dry myght thwart

a kiss o' sensuality; eupnea doth hap leaden heavily;

humility a virtue o' beauty indubitably doth gleam,

natheless a pie of thine humble is — forsooth overly

as forcest thou yet dirt 'n' a crow to bolt’d down be

a run in circles the stroll becometh! — I shall thole it all;

upon me! — upon me — quick-fire have it bestow’d;

— goddamn’d adrift — it cannot ripen into so!;

oh, into so it shan’t e’er metamorphose, ye gods!;

an also-ran? — the lost run o' one! — bow down!;

bow down 'fore the shatter’d sky the entirety o'

which in the yore-era thou didst reach once bold and far!

playing both sides against the middle,

yet aware for my vanquishment blore

thenceforth scatter’d foregone;

off the face o' the earth — wherefore?!

the air indiscernible, yet purloin’d fro' —

hath the difference made; the heaven and hell out o'! ;

remordeō! — I bite back — remorse I cause;

— eye for an eye — sayest thou — quid pro quo;

’you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’

— ’tis wherefore thro’ thine smeareth the blood

streaming twice as much and long

not a gutless wonder, but a cookie so tough;

dost thou know phoenices do reborn, aye, dust to dust

— ashes to ashes forbye the entity doth betime withal!;

tragicomical ayenbyte; those circles vicious appear;

the delineation; thy temptation: vile this symmetry

thine not; a square peg in a round hole — confide:

’tis not to slag thee off, yet deliver thee, my dear

can’t the colleen cloy'd ambitious be?

— think thou twice wha'

thy 'return to the roots' doth signify,

ardent devotee to snuff out gone

and dust, ashes and soil ne’er sweet betide

— o’er and aboue thou saltest

'em wyth teares gush’d nou styll alive

„Later, Later, (Ne'er) Too Late…”

an éminence grise is a unit o' time

and within its reign we bow down afore

its power bihindan the throne

wyth our jaws in our own laps

when so reveal'd it cometh to pass

belive wyth me, sayest thou in thy tones hush’d,

as in a yepsen thou tenderest thy boon o' a heart,

yet e’en astoniéd by either charm or fate — I run,

I run, I run, I run — thro' the gates and portals o' art

seldseen is such meekness o' love

wyth its leechcraft fierce by virtue o'

thine endeavor stalwart and pure

as the driven snow and hell or high water come

keep thine head aboue, replieth

and semi-denieth my tongue releaséd,

for o' voidness ne’ermore is the hourglass;

my inward embankment maketh the sand accumulate

as I depart and my indifference professeth

leaving thee marr’d beyond belief

to possess aught more confess’d to me thyself

wha' we wander thro' — 'tis not a plage

wha' we ramble thro' — 'tis not an esplanade

since our idyllic backwater passively, yet doth attenuate

not all the wayward lost eventuate

in their voyage, voyage

at the end o' the day when in togetherness

repose we mantl’d via eventide

live and die by, thou pledgest to my ear and arm

— live and let die, welter my thoughts

as my figure by thee dwelleth enclasp’d,

e’en tho' our hearts' frequencies do waltz

in either English romance or Viennese maelstrom bound;

agin all odds, whisperest thou, tho' so long they are

— too long, foreboding as if of all loves I vocalize,

but the welkin ring love maketh not,

maugre our unison we bequeath life to nigh;

wyth thy care other-worldly and a less-than-stellar mine

— the odds o' which nought but an absolute lack

deservest thou day and night albeit, a dearheart o' mine

odds and sods, odds and ends — all jointly ours;

a hovel o' a cabin and the ends met — enow make,

tho' all we build is a plural form o' a castle in the air

thy fire is my ire; ayond contrariwise we have it siréd

and in this rainfall wyth my attire pearly, howbeit cold

I shall lone it; be it mire, ken o' veritas art, na a sycophant

I shall go it alone; be it into wire; relinquish, let go withal!

the hourglass occludéd by gildéd silence and salt sibilant

to thy penance be I disallow as the sinner mere anyhow;

my heart, my art — thou art — albeit I — thine orison not

'later' I’d redo — in 'ne’er too late' thou hast 'ne’er' bereft

the ruins o' the hovel and the castle

shall rue us cruel, yet not beat the air

„Ghostwriter (Come In Fro’ The Cold)”

'in the detail God hath the devil met

— wyth the dubiety lack’d

the one we know better appeareth

than the one we ken not;

providéd it be for us

— may thine hearth burn forevermore;

grantéd that thou hast

the data torturéd long enow,

emerge it shall as aught'

suffer me once — to demean me twofold

the jug goeth to the well