1
The brutal Lord of All will rip us from each other—leave the one to
suffer here alone. No need belief in god or hell to postulate that
much. The dance: hands touching, leaves touching—eyes looking, clouds
rising—lips touching, cheeks touching, arms about … Sleep. Heavy head,
heavy arm, heavy dream—: Of Ymir’s flesh the earth was made and of his
thoughts were all the gloomy clouds created. Oya!
* * * * *
_Out of bitterness itself the clear wine of the imagination will be
pressed and the dance prosper thereby._
2
To you! whoever you are, wherever you are! (But I know where you are!)
There’s Durer’s “Nemesis” naked on her sphere over the little town by
the river—except she’s too old. There’s a dancing burgess by Tenier
and Villon’s _maitress_—after he’d gone bald and was shin pocked and
toothless: she that had him ducked in the sewage drain. Then there’s
that miller’s daughter of “buttocks broad and breastes high”. Something
of Nietzsche, something of the good Samaritan, something of the devil
himself,—can cut a caper of a fashion, my fashion! Hey you, the dance!
Squat. Leap. Hips to the left. Chin—ha!—sideways! Stand up, stand up _ma
bonne_! you’ll break my backbone. So again! —and so forth till we’re
sweat soaked.
* * * * *
_Some fools once were listening to a poet reading his poem. It so
happened that the words of the thing spoke of gross matters of the
everyday world such as are never much hidden from a quick eye. Out of
these semblances, and borrowing certain members from fitting masterpieces
of antiquity, the poet began piping up his music, simple fellow, thinking
to please his listeners. But they getting the whole matter sadly muddled
in their minds made such a confused business of listening that not only
were they not pleased at the poet’s exertions but no sooner had he done
than they burst out against him with violent imprecations._
3
It’s all one. Richard worked years to conquer the descending cadence,
idiotic sentimentalist. Ha, for happiness! This tore the dress in ribbons
from her maid’s back and not spared the nails either; wild anger spit
from her pinched eyes! This is the better part. Or a child under a table
to be dragged out coughing and biting, eyes glittering evilly. I’ll have
it my way! Nothing is any pleasure but misery and brokeness. THIS is the
only up-cadence. This is where the secret rolls over and opens its eyes.
Bitter words spoken to a child ripple in morning light! Boredom from a
bedroom doorway thrills with anticipation! The complaints of an old man
dying piecemeal are starling chirrups. Coughs go singing on springtime
paths across a field; corruption picks strawberries and slow warping
of the mind, blacking the deadly walls—counted and recounted—rolls in
the grass and shouts ecstatically. All is solved! The moaning and dull
sobbing of infants sets blood tingling and eyes ablaze to listen. Speed
sings in the heels at long nights tossing on coarse sheets with burning
sockets staring into the black. Dance! Sing! Coil and uncoil! Whip
yourselves about! Shout the deliverence! An old woman has infected her
blossomy grand-daughter with a blood illness that every two weeks drives
the mother into hidden songs of agony, the pad-footed mirage of creeping
death for music. The face muscles keep pace. Then a darting about the
compass in a tarantelle that wears flesh from bones. Here is dancing! The
mind in tatters. And so the music wistfully takes the lead. _Aye de mi,
Juana la Loca, reina de Espagna, esa esta tu canta, reina mia!_