Loop-d-loop 2

Loop-d-loop
When it has ended, it has ended. Not unlike a film strip that flips over and over as the projector has shown the very last frame. It ends, but it continues even when nothing is being seen by the naked eye. To liken it to a Luiz Bunuel creation is probably being too generous. Absurd ennui and auspicious dada. Constructive degeneracy and absurdity phantoms conclusions silently . . . asleep?
(Squelch sound . . .) a knob turns and then there is Morse code . . . the knob turns and 410376 checking in and then there is code . . . is that a go? roger on the approach, over . . . this knob turns and then there is silence.
for the knob was well greased by the best intentions of both men. One grew to become a soldier and the other the world turned to a priest. Killer and Lover.
The original intent was never to harm, but rather to inform. But like many other well intentioned projects, this was never well received. The well intentioned tale of the seaman begins on earth. On earth as well as the opening sky, the sea is a mystery to man and his kind. The earth folds under our boots and the sea often seems a shifting and closing dream. The seaman priest and the captain now noticed on deck that the sky over their heads was not closing over them as they slipped past the horizon. Instead the sky seemed to open up over both of their heads and the gracious and engulfing insults came straight away like the buttered cobbles that they threw at the rubbish men on Sundays after church clattered from the rooves. He and his brother were little knackers for the pranks that besot many a child their age, but they carried them too far one day. One day with a swift descent, the implications of their plans fell into quick disarray. When they had made the deal with Nick, it was to further their tomfoolery only. There was nothing truly malicious in it, but instead the deal was twisted. First, the vicars wife became violently ill in the midst of his sermon. Many eyebrows were raised. It was not like her to make consternation while her husband was in the pulpit. The following week, they skipped church for fear that Nick would visit them again. They ambled the back streets near the fish markets at the docks. And then they stopped for then, old Tom, the cat came screeching around the corner with his tail on fire and howling like the wind in March. They knew that Nick was here.
What was happening, but the deal with the devil that was met without the slightest scruples nor supervision of the details involved. Far be it from me to cast aspersions, but they knew that they were screwed over, suckered and screwed thricely, punched in the kidneys and then spat upon. It was not part of the deal to feel the pain drill its way from the small of his back through to his feet like an electrical charge, but when the devil drives a deal, he does it without any compunction to do it with fairness nor obligation to his actions.
They ran through the alleys but stopped. He stood before them leaning on a rotting cask. Nick sidled up to them. Do you like this? was his question, this teat from which you now suck. How dost the milk taste upon your tongues? their eyes escaped to black space and the theatre screen inside their collective minds brought them forward. The skies over their heads erupted in the flame of daylight at night. A silver bird the size of no bird ever seen before over the skies of northern Europe was falling as it dropped death and as well, to its own death.
And, back again, over. good niht . . . nigh the total sum of this rest might carry me over, over. An emergency, when I am awake my legs I’ve thrown above the hole miraculously, I can run. A brief light appears there and I feel I can reach it in a sprint. Bounding out now, fleeing from the radio set, into the waiting arms of a well trodden path. I have been here before and latral punching revives the blood flow to my hands. A shot (squelch sound . . .) Alpha four- six- one- seven- nine- zero- there should be rescue vehicles there now (belch noise) come in over the wire at point- eight o. Oh. Oh yeah there has been or was a deal made I think.. . a rain of fire and punch drunk with the mistake, why did I forget the pulse of your viscious mound of venus, your rich folds of flesh in their violent symmetry. Oh guilt, my heads on fire but the rest is going numb. Foul eyes, I can’t see.
My feet are so near hell that they are growing cold. My feet are on a footpath to the nether regions in my cold, cold mind and soul. It is a trip that I never thought that I would make in its entirety. Oh, and look, there is Judas so far away from me, but like the light that reaches from so far away in the coldness of space from distant galaxies nebula and pulsing areas of so much infinite sadness and fear that we as human cannot ever know what lies beyond our brows.
If the circles of hell are concentric, then so too are the descending paths towards the tightening lassoo of the weight on my mind. The deeper I go, the farther from the sphere of knowing what I will think of next lies. Look at that. Was that my hand? Erupting in fire? Look at those shapes and how they erupt with the fire that burns within my hand.
It felt right until the time they strove to have their throats slit, what one would call ‘Professional Hand Tuning.’ Fiddling with the front of those pants, reaching for the cable release, the projects my “uncle” began teaching this lesson from the confusion of the Northern Kingdom, the flames and darkness of the netherregions that I am falling into. Its split, the flesh and the knife parting it, the lessons, the cabling, the knife splitting the world in two . . . like . . .
The hemispheres of my mind, . . . memorizing the moment the bullet tore through my blousing, the puff from the down of my coat softly exploding startle great flocks from the auditorium. Unusual turn in intersection syntax, he thought. There was much accidental violence in the throws of my charming drama. I watched and then followed him through the darkened corridors, almost losing him several times, but catching him and falling upon him. Accidental violence contained within my pants, the patterns holding the checksum of power to stop him in the hallway. His heart stopped in the washroom and never started again.
Those pants frightened the brethern: the breadth of them, the cut to accentuate the relative girth of vertical pulse within the diamond of sinister warmth. Canned heat, heat that kept the campers warm from the threat of censure. Today, I think I’ll temper the moment with malice and an “accidental” fire.
For the fire of the moment pales in comparison with the ice cold calamity of the deals and events leading up to the moment when we, my great, great, great, great grandfather and I met Him in the frozen wastes and nodded our heads in agreement to the deals struck behind which rose the mountains which spewed forth the volcanic wastes of the damned souls that became the cement for the deals penned in blood when we, He and I, shook hands. I felt my blood run chill and knew then that my blood had been sucked from me, the marrow spilt from my bones like sap from a tree. My great, great, great, great grandfather, the seaman priest covered his face and wept openly.
And so it was that I had consciously, but unwilingly damned all of my progeny from that date. Hans, the late 12th century woodsman who met the black man in the woods and coveted his axe. There was an unfortunate wood chopping competition that took place later that ended with Hans’ skull split by the proverbial widowmaker after he had won the axe and triumphantly marched back into the woods the next day to fell many a tree. He fell and as well so too many more who would unwittingly draw the blackman nearest us like the flower scented petals draw the bee. Mr. Hawthorne next found the coal black man in a woods thicket in that great dark primeval of the New World. The Maypole man from then to now is not a new phenomenon. That eerie grip, of a moment of uncertainty walking in the woods at dusk, is an ancient sensation. The Wildemensch stalks us, asleep or awake. And he has taken my great, great, great, great grandfather, the priest to the underworld with him on Earth. The man who once walked among the foul and fair on the ground can no longer step upon it. For then, the man in black would call him on his portion of the deal struck.
Flogging the pavement with waterladen boots, he thought of this and then of how to dispel these demons that drove through his brain day and night. By night, even in the alehouse, soaking his head in the small talk of the keep, wringing the sheets the next morning when he awoke, they were dank with sweat. He woke nearly every morn to the smell of rotten egg permeating his nostrils. He looked up to the grandfather clock, still ticking and tocking. It all had to come soon. Could he escape by water? Somehow he knew that if he remained at sea then he would be not only rent from this earth, but rent from this grasp of the Man with no civilised name.
He walked to the docks once very few days to smell the salt that flooded his eyes with tears and to escape the presence at his back. He turned and peered now and then at a crate, behind it where the shadows lie, but the only secrets were of a headless and stinking fish body. Men jostled him, believing that he were drunk and then a call of “fuggin’ God dead black cloth, get out a the way!” They knew that he had been a man of the cloth and so had no respect for he who dwealt among the vast and incomprehensible changing and violent waves of the earth’s seas. He knew that he did not belong here, but now was shunned from the inviolate Earth and this God whom he had once knew by name. But the sea rejected him as well.
Alone now he wonders in the forest, through the valley but not to, no never near the farms. Shunning that world gave him an elation if only for a moment, an afternoon. In the lighter moments He appeared even with an unsuspicious countenance. A smile breaking across his lips his breath drawn in. From a distance one would mistake this for a hesitation. It is in fact the moment before a violent outburst, a laugh. But, in that moment before he stepped out from the forest he was overtaken by an unfathomable eclipse. The Inky Shade was upon him like a five o’ clock shadow. It appeared not like a malicious wraith, but rather like an accident, the spectre that creates a misstep. In this moment his mind wondered to other things. He laughed and laughed and laughed when old Nick took his hand in His. Old Nick’s mouth parted slowly and He began a low chuckle too and then stopped. But by then, He had forgotten what made him laugh. It was, however, absurd.