There was always a certain bitterness in her extravagance,
in the curve of her fingers around the stem of a champagne flute,
or the wet, visceral slither of her endless strings of pearls over sun-bitten shoulders.
Her small-talk was ruinous, but they always laughed and called her witty
and came back again and again for more, even when her words mauled them.
Those cynical galas seemed to drag on for years,
with crowds of dancers turning mechanically to tinned tunes,
the ones her society friends approved.
I think now it was all carefully staged, her prolonged suicide,
all masked with prodigal glamour, wine and sparkle.
Her worshipers were
They say the air is thinner here,
but breathing it in
is such hard work.
You woke up in purple
like a mantle of
mountain had moved
from the sky and found you
descending into the morning.
The rocks were joints,
buckling and kneeling in the heather,
as the weather in you
woke up - Sunday's rain
and the last remains
of April snow
drowning out the riverbed.
You like when the air
tastes bright and bitter,
when the sun chokes the
marigolds and fruit
withers on the vine
because I say you are brittle -
damaged in that way
men find so attractive.
All your veins popped and thriving -
the beasts have all returned,
winter in the
As I await the final gilding of the leaves
in the crown of the oak, life rises up around me,
warm, in shades of amber. Fury of peace
and stillness of motion together encircle a frail humanity.
The darkness that falls now is gentle,
like a friend’s touch, or morning tea,
and quells the darkness behind me.
There is no cause for fear.
A Monstrous Romance - Prelude by QuiEstInLiteris, literature
Literature
A Monstrous Romance - Prelude
Document 1
Fragment of a letter from “The Lesser Man” to “My Brother Galfridus”
Date estimated early 12th Century
Translated as accurately as possible from the original faulty Latin
Three days hence we shall arrive in the lands of our sister Columba. I shall write again at our arrival, but this I shall send ahead, because much of what we came to see, we have seen already, and because the farther we go, the greater becomes my fear that these missives will be intercepted.
Brother, I do believe that our sister Columba and all of her household must be dead. A kingdom of blasphemers has risen here, and its blight can
My sweet virgin
of the thorns -
no gifts of oak and amber,
no prophecy to wash your feet
or dress your sins in silk.
Why do you mock the faithful?
Columbines now grow
where you first drew breath,
remembering and pointing
to the sky -
where you could not find
clouds or smoke.
Then feast on my heart
and bones.
My shirt will be
your sacrament,
my face your bad habit.
And I will feel your resurrection
like rain
on the back of my neck
the rapid pelt of pebbles
filling up my hands
and burying my feet.