Avesta

In dreams the truth is learned, that all good works are done in the absence of a caress

Leonard Cohen


Here comes the Genuflector. Raiser of demons. Whispering of Zoroaster, spectator of the cosmic struggle between the good Lord, Ahura Mazda (Ormzad) and Ahriman (Anro Mainyu), the cruel Evil Spirit, the Demon of Demons (Daevanam Daeva). At sleep, the shore of Vendidad Sade is given – vi daeva data – and a price is exacted on the exchanges of Azazel. Answers are sought but not forthcoming, poets know nothing but how to fool the moon with shy bread, a fake nourishment to serve a fool or starve a king.

Real and unreal, navigating groundlessness, beyond the day-gates of fear and madness, or the orgone-spin of duality, moment in moment the dream now, body-stilled and mind-shot, wakes to the threshings of desire, the subtle carrion delivery of the dark post. Sleep the sleep of the dream-animal in vital bounds across wasteland ash, holding the bright eye of wisdom on a red silk sash, pranic and gravid with a polyp of ceaseless drool.

Vase breathing, key to the Fourth time, now invited by Kurosawa to sip the fire petal – take this longing to Mr Lynch who has a nuclear pass and will show you the galleries of Leng.

The sands blow, the bones slow, life has its undertow recalibrated in the smelter of your heart. Dreaming of the Kraken, of Boethius, of Heraclitean flames, soaring through pain-dunes and dismembered corpses pecked clean by a plague of locusts – you knew each one individually, intimately, each one your lover in a new skin, an ancient clasping desperate and dear.

Ultimately, as the sun sets, the vampires who cannot dance will recommence their shopping
For images, lullabies and the moist trace of tears in the salted-fields of this tooled-up world,
Help them to their endless death, even as they squeeze you through your own vice.

Kh
8.8.06

IMAGE: Zarathustra, via workersdojo