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Mind World
I am on the beach, with Don Chihuahua. He gives me a cigarette, which I take, since I am no longer able to withstand the contagion of futility. The world is no longer able to find him, or me, without the aid of the blue puff of smoke whorling time into infinity for a few definite moments.
The Don casts his mind back to a recent weekend on which his consciousness dwelt on the rim of the bath. His body remained in his chair, gaping at the live world, but his mind-in-the-world was tethered to the rim of the bath; the hand of his mind raised, constantly, the ideal blade, razor sharp and inches long, hovering on the crest of his will. The movement of his mind-body pushed its arm up towards its chin, the mental knuckles resting there while the blade grazed the polyp-ridden cavities of the neck. A mind-eye watches the wrist flick blithely across the tendons - they are closed in their own world, believing in tension, and oblivious to exteriority, which must disillusion them of their fond dream: severed, the head flips through a half-circle and the gasping of the revealed arteries and sinews traces parabolic out-leaping carnivals of spending blood.
Yet, the Don remains in this chair, breathing, pulsing, living, inescapably. I continue to blame him for my lack of courage, although this very blame is itself the more cowardly act.
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Shee Beg, Shee Mor
Fionn mac Cumhaill, who ate the wisdom of the salmon, and built the Giant's Causeway to bridge the gap between the celtic nations, died in the battle fought between the fairy armies. Two queens, each from the smaller and the greater hills, Shee Beg and Shee Mor, fought, and continue to fight in the immortal night, and the battle will never be won. Fionn's first love was transformed into a deer, and his later love threw herself from his chariot on the Hill of Tara. A warrior is interned, upright in the cairn of Shee Beg, the lesser hill, alongside a woman, teeth perfectly preserved; they face the Hill of Tara. A common foe will one day unite the warring fairy armies, and the warrior Fionn will rise again, to defeat the invading hordes.
Here, in the tomb inside in the lesser hill,
I lie with my dead love.
Over on the greater hill,
the young warrior still raises armies.
No-one will win.
We will be found, fossils in the ground.
Men will look at our bones,
and see in us ancient truths.
But we will not be there.
Lovers of every generation
will come here, and gaze on these hills,
turn to each other and leave unspoken
the tales of fairy queens and warrior lords
that heave in their hearts.
We will watch them as we wander the fields,
I in the deer and you in the doe,
each in the soil,
communing in the air.
Warriors will hunt us for their prowess,
and our unending deaths will ennoble
their darkening hearts
with a measure of innocence.
Like vultures, rulers will scavenge us;
like snakes, they will corrupt our flesh
with the poison in their tongues.
And bards will come and sing of us
as an emblem of a nation,
a cypher for a world.
They will tell tales of wars
that cannot be won.
Their poems will call for me to rise again
with my conquering arm,
and they will call for you to rise
and be my heart.
They will sing,
until men and women are no more,
of restive vitality
and wise repose.
We will watch,
you and I,
as the cycle continues,
broken only by the look
in those lovers' eyes.
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