Summer Elegy

Aloysius shuttered into closeness of contact, fearful and ashamed.  His need as some unsavory letter; carried.  A through and through reminder he couldn't let Nicene go, the truth it spoke of illness.  Here, close; he struggled wanting to run after having drawn near.  Hang on deed, like a gun against the head and no nerve against the final cut.

It was the bright folk, Nicene's host, who called Aloysius from retreat.  Still our man feared Nicene as if unswaddled and unbedight.  Thrust to her midst, Aloysius feared his stalking and hunting oft Nicene's lands. He was not her equal, perhaps not even a remade and perfected Aloysius.  Nicene was the great art of immortal hands, malice wholly forgot her design. She greeted Aloysius a friend returned.

Aloysius in defeat

The pain radiated with something like light but then ended in fluid, such that he checked for blood.  That was just the senses failing to explain the stimulus.  As for him Aloysius struggled back lashing out impotently.  The fists missed or did nothing when they found body.  The next blow exploded electric across the nerves in his face and the warmth rained down til he tasted it. he spit it out hard and cried.

The tears were those of a child hurt, not a man but the true fear of a child.  Aloysius was not so used to pain in those days to ignore it or chalk it up to less than the needles in his arm.  He was still like a babe and left an easy mark for opportunistic claws.

He was beaten and limped away in his shame crying out lies of vengeance which somehow crowned his defeat.  But he had not shirked away he came when challenged a faced his foe if only to crawl away proven the lesser.  That was Aloysius distilled.

Aloysius the coward

These back alleys always found their way to some treasure of youth for Aloysius.  Most forgotten and falling but not the blood.  The moments of failure and strife they marked down to the germinal matrix.  They oft marred the sunny days of memory with their shadowy worry.  This all left our hero with a reflex response to cringe back, but in the greater mind he fought to disregard fear and charge back to the fray.

Aloysius therefore was one easily startled and wary of hurt at heart, though heroic by desire.  Easily falling back to a defense and hurling headlong when well armed; coward and fury at that cowardliness. 

Though unskilled should the battle finally arise he would remain their for his lumps.  Often standing to a challenge, when he didn't know how to hold his hands up.  All he knew was he was big.  This was not a bully but rather the bullied standing up hoping they would go away and realizing one must have something in his hand to call a bluff.   Aloysius could count many corners his nose was bloodied and wondered with their multitude if he was not to blame.  Though he was weak at times and all predators developed a smell for the wire in the blood.

cloth turned in shreds and synchronicity

across the sepulcher fields south; cloth turned in shreds and synchronicity with the wind.  I could not travel these lands fearing the Leviathan among the sand.  I walk far wide, the crumbling east hunting the memories of haunted lands.  Vathek or Brigadoon or just a hope for something better beyond the barriers of sight.  The blind drunk or even self lost in a crowd scream for blood; any would do. 

All nagging and everywhere like damp in sea spray

In the wake of failure Aloysius retreated to the grey lands of the sea.  Content in the ever endless shore and sky that wallowed together in the sea.  Some darks we always with him like a fluid his innards could not filter free.  All nagging and everywhere like damp in sea spray the water was like his emotion.  Ephemeral and untrustworthy he couldn't hold it or move it.  It was anger that one was easy, depression was a friend.  No this was worry the sickly one that ruined even the moments you know were OK. Doubt the wriggling squirm of chaos in order well set forth.

in the memory of bonfires on the hill

Aloysius was in the memory of bonfires on the hill and wonders of youth.  I have called him a dreamed self but no he wasn't me, rather vital side of myself I could no longer see.  Struggled for words left quiet in the need of security.  Anger left muffled and finally ground to cold.  Aloysius was someone I could only seldom find.  Only coming to full on long rides with friends, on the roads rural and sincere.  I piece together these tales to remember what I once was.

November was a time of gales across the forgotten southern highway

November was a time of gales across the forgotten southern highway; the dreamed road of decay.  There dark land mixed in painted sky all overturned.  The season itself was the plow, grinding all our lives new.  Aloysius wanted the old ways most left here, needed them to mend himself.  He was broken or antiquated like some rusted implement forgot in the rain; and needed someone to remember.  He was like a spirit bound up with a stretch of road.  Nothing material save for a few tall tales a meme or monad spiritual.

There was no disguise to Aloysius

There was no disguise to Aloysius.  Even to throw away the extraneous was out of his realm.  Some minimalist and machined reinvention would not fit. He was himself for ill or not.  Dull eyed at times be-gazing an inner land, as all else missed his eye. Here he was the hero or at least didn't feel villain through his bones.  What was broken he broke in intention; he acted not reacted.  He was principal and some of the story his own.

And at even that he would fail

The stream of lies trickles at the feet of Nicene's ascent.  A polluted drain clogged with the words and wonders Aloysius gave away.  Rainbow hued oils that choked the fish, his grief.  The ragged plastic on the rocks his potential left to sloth.  No king or hero for his Tuvstarr, Aloysius was a wanderer.  And at even that he would fail.

The muse returns to mind

The mind and dreams return to their wanting, on these later days of the year.  As if roused and rounded up by a memory of school and it's worrisome start.  Through all that comes an end and the last days here.  The flight of wild wonder for fairer shores.  Amid this moldering the melancholia creeps and I remember you.  My need and myself.

Broken free of the wider ordering understanding these months ride mutable and grey.  Casting of it's mantle of beauty for one of discord and decay even the land wanders in change.  All Autumn colors and doubt fill us through and through. Leaving me alone but for wishing for you. 

In this I dream myself Aloysius and you Nicene my queen, but then I realize somethings amiss and the tale finally begins.  I am lost from the beginning struggling for a connection to you. Lashing out like a hurt animal that doesn't know what to do.  Here I am only a man or rather only the man I am.  Then there is some quest that is transformative and I'm able to speak to you. But the truth is there is no journey that will fix my failing like that. No growth is slow and I am a lazy sod reaching far beyond my grasp.

A poem written of want and need

This is a poem written out of want and need.  Something that comes out with listening to the voice and timbers of  a particular reader on youtube.


Lift me up from this realm
of coke cans and scheming
That sits over the vales of import. 
Birth in my sight
visions of Cartesian curves
that replicate the land. 
Give me peace in the fostered dark
that comes with the lonely
and dies with the bark. 
Give me my beloved hound
to depend only upon me when I'm down.
Call back the banner men
Set a feast within the hall
Deny this wasting land
All paper and Marlow's needs
Speak of summer and idealism
in glades lost and wonder returned
Drape me in Nicene's arms
with her voice and fragrant breeze
Let dawn strike my sleep
And drive me upon the land
Pleasant dreamt towers
looming above heavenly grand

Coming quickly to terms of all expression laid

I love progressive rock, my favorite Yes track is And You and I.  I never knew other people did until a few days ago, when watching a documentary.  They were talking about ABWH playing that song and the crowd going insane.  Well  in listening and listening to the song over a couple days this is what comes out of me.



The chord struck we fall into time
differences settle down to rhyme
Call forth Dreamer the ocean is made
Rise again your joy lost to grave

Simple and light let your song be
Bird song dreamer sing your harmony
Your life your journey all now see
Broken eyes mend upon thee

Regard us well under your name
All we want looms the same
Give us song well up an accord
Take these words as reward

Listen for us we can not see
Dream for us Dreamer be free

More prose from my dreamquest story Of the unknown Aloysius

The road coughed up around us as we left, roiling up dust in some attempt to swallow the car.  This would give way to rain in a hundred miles but for a time it was dust and dark.  Neither were talk, me nor him.  Vengeance was solemn and in this cases needed no voice. 

In other eyes we may have been riders, set out against the world.  But this wasn't mythic; just two needing to unset a wrong.

It wasn't Anglac Axebearer by my side or even Mousk, rather it was Lucerne.  This shieldman untested I, Aloysius, grumbled doubt.  Fail or Fight either was fine, uncertainty was a worry. Lucerne's cause was another, we sought Haddibaugh that was simple.  Often I found myself in his schemes but Lucerne; why?

Time proved me both wrong and right on Lucerne.  He would work himself up a hero to some other lost soul; and finally be bound to play the role.  He would be wild and lash out mad not measured.  It would go unwell but perhaps we would win.

Seldom souls

Sound of seldom souls flew up like a wall against our silence and ourselves.  I was only Aloysius watching whatever we were dissolve in Nicene's eyes.  Bound we walked She was delicate as every, I stumbled trying to weave our ribbons back together.

Midnight City

Aloysius awoke as though surfacing wrecked at sea.  Alone and panic in quiet moments burst with light and breath with sound, no not breath but gasp desperate.  Self is apparent but other or anyone else obscured until you know you're OK. This our hero took as true but wondered of where he was at.

Again crept something Nicene, not concrete, but this world lightened in her touch.  Aloysius wandered awash with stores and stalls many abandoned in the last days of the faire.  He found in measures, himself bound but not with Nicene who he greeted bewildered though she simply smiled.

They stepped the high promenade speaking truths this world interred; more read histories than selfsame memories.  Nothing in them seemed live and lived but strange posited actions who's reaction arrived them here.  Nicene too took another, and was mother to his child.  But none of this seemed lived in nor worn.  And they walk together in outsideness until reaching well worn streets.

Azathoth

Alligator tears in broken mirror upon a lost land; wrong.  Never together still never apart with some strange rift of self or potential.  Gather up words and wonder of fragile fibs I told myself I could be.  Thus not you nor even me and certainly never we. If to release you from dream to sail your own finer seas.  No more nights nonesuch bright waking to morns' sepulchre skies tall and grim.

So it Goes

This is part of an ongoing short story I have been working on.  It is a bit of dream interpretation and a bit of James Joyce style flow of consciousness writing.  I am not sure this is something I would ever want to publish as the psychological analysts would realize I am nuts.




Aloysius was long alone in the land, sometimes broken some strong.  These the tame lands of Nicene's sway, only an audience he sought.  Not to marvel of the bright land wrought nor of noble lesson to be taught.  Aloysius was a seeker a suitor though worn and simple spun.

He Imagined himself Hercules to beg trials and win loves hand.  But that was only painted tales, not for the real and true.  He would see Nicene everywhere and none, though mostly in sleep. And in time he would see awake, not bleary or inward, but sober of here and now.

It was not won, nor of Aloysius made, but near chance Nicene summoned the wanderer to her side.  He would rush heart overflown and she would wash him with something like love.  Still in this something lay wrong at the core.  Something immutable as ages splitting them far in twain.

Even resolved, father and family looked upon Aloysius seeing true he and I were poorly made.  Only longing was there more.  Nicene was the other have not of Aloysius but the self he longed to be.

Colorado

The night draws past the mangled memories to something new.  Selfward looking eyes fall upon someone else and Aloysius begins.  Ranging to autumn lands made new in their burnt in dreams.  This once and future land mingled and mixed though soon to oily separate upon awake.  Now Aloysius climbed secret steps hidden for the alien but yawning wide for the alienated.  This where once he belonged, friended and enthronged.

Brescia

The blood soar up screwing through veins with hard tidal rush reigning down panic and sorrow left aside years ago. It wasn't one you forgot but sought aimless through the shallow moments of your life. Dreaming to choke back in the ever falling fretless enchantment it always brought. I was Aloysius though years I had forgot until at last I was not. Not waiting not wanting, not ever needing nor myself or someone else. Then moments atypical seem to seal our fate, again with the Ghrelin lizard wanting Aloysius woke from Sleep.

Dying Steps

Some where in the dens of morning Aloysius came to me with tales we has forgot. It was of a time of his wanting where ruin took the the southern slopes. Of some deluge that sank low the homes that sailed as idle ships upon the land. In these days those with wits hid with the high pasture steading waiting out the rain. But here I speak of wisdom and well we know Aloysius was without. He would save his own for they were what little he cared he had.

Even in that there was worry, of Nicene, so he cast all away. Casting care aside and not considering chores he rightfully owned, and left. To her high lands bright and choked with light.

Climbing steps that wound around themselves Aloysius was confounded by Nicenes host. And their eyes were not filled by his disheveled shapes; glaring upon him in his need. What was he to take Nicene dry with competense and drowning his in lack.