TWELFTH FIGHT part the Eleventh
Frank is in Delirium Fields and his mind is striving to find itself in its new dark condition.
One such unconscious adventure has him lashed to a mast and he is the forecastle.
There’s no ill in this wind filling my chest
with treasured ambition to find my best
tether’d arms star-cross’d bind my blithe spirit
mind outstretched billowing hope to stir it
of a sudden becalmed at a grand gate
a tide of tears invite a love of Kate
they ebb with thoughts that she doth softly touch
deep mooring harbours dreams that hurt too much
music fades to every fathom plumbed
too easy bedfellows hope and despair be numbed
by the weight of his lachrymose sea
my body procrastinates o’er not to be
Kate, my sweet, oh failure, mad, not to live
sour sorrow in this parting, oh forgive
stupid anchor stirs this bed’s sentiment
first and last words love; all that’s said is meant
leaden eyelids cannot prevent visions
tho’ unity of strength’s beset by divisions
and dowdy doubt accuses you bowsprit
fate’s finger is to great heights or the pit
forsooth I thought I felt a warmth of hand
holding courting we in some good foreign land
wherein at last we might be weapon free
and philosophy’s glasses help us see
past arid malevolent ampersand
served better sentences we understand
in this darkness bounces a ball of light
its arc diminishing to something quiite slight
it rolls energy spent then stares at me
it blinks or winks asking ‘will you yet be?’
another voice chimes, tis death’s droll tone
saying sans soul here lies more flesh and bone
mocking me it takes a stance for drawing
and animates its skull as for jawing:
i’ve no ammunition for your foul play
I’ll not don your dismal blue mask today.
At that, death was enveloped by an ironic winding sheet falling from above. In one of its corners it had a single letter embroidered in red: K.
Frank, becalmed, thought he could see something, someone. Another shadow moved over him. However, this one had all the warmth of a woman’s love.
At once I fly in amongst downy cloud
full sail our prospects, adieu, yet, damn shroud.
through thy tempest, my mind lied, still alert
unrecognising the hap’ness you wert
eloquent talk of sweet nothingness
my breath sharper than cursory redress
anchoring my body in deep nowhere
better stranger life ere prosper o’er
and steely madness firing frigid fear
in rain and wind hollowed eyes would leer
encourage tender flesh foolish eschew
holding a Kate and not a deadly shrew.
Fie, your sound and fury hast my soul missed
and thy sting was taken when I was kissed
and her shadow stretched full sun to me
and I’m yet alive, canst thou fail to see. …to be concluded