Cimmerian in Gloom

Like tobacco smoke her smile clouded the room, she was inhuman and unacceptable to the point of genius. I feared her then and still do, the obese clarity of her simple manners, each sentence she spoke was an end, a great scripted agony, something abysmal that inspired fidelity. The arm chairs were tight red leather, ghoulish relics from an age where joviality amongst the strange ran into the universe upon thin accords of scrutiny. As if of the acrid air, I migrated unknowable, unseen amongst the awkward book cases and tortured gifts from dead relatives. A bronze sphere, with twisted continents I did not understand, thickly embossed upon it. This I passed whilst she entertained the men she had gathered for her leisure’s.

-….the ascendancy of the barbarian is in its zenith, civilisation has become a mire of grave vulgarity….’

I listened to her speech, with a deep awe, such word wrought majesty choked me to the fearful quick. I was the obedient delinquent in the house of the dog. Husky purpose scented witticisms, gave her guests vermillion souls enflamed, that is why they came, rich powerful men all yet wan as sick disturbed waters. Circling with young bare feet, I trod upon the polished oak and fur rugs as a phantom, listening to the song of epicurean waif. I knew of love making. Her eyes shimmered as if the liquid of her gaze rested at the bottom of gasping moonlit well, waning constantly, yet incapable of vanishing.

-….the lust of hegemony is often dallying, in ever un predictable circles, a path without choice but to return unto itself, often denying and always apologetic….

In the rare quiet, I could hear Belshazzar calling from the adjacent room. A ruined falcon with tired mystic sorrows, that erupted from his sleeping cave in heavy hate rich grunts. Not a single guest made note of that once mighty birds pathetic calls, their bellies too rich with free wine. If only they could have listened, paused from the lullaby of her glass gleaming tongue and recalled that dirge of melancholy. I paused as dark hewn stone, a statuette weathered and unrecognisable, she had seen me. Suddenly the great room, with its great wood burning fire place, unfurled flames draping aloud with echoes of warmth; became cavernous and chill. Yet her eyes, like the smoky wings of the ancients passed me by, yet in them I thought for a moment I had seen a glimmer of recognition, but she did not eject me.

-…let me be frank gentleman, the war will serve us well….

I sneaked in between the space abandoned by an old candle stand, it had been removed the day we arrived, she hated it for reasons I could not guess at. Yet happy was I to stand there in its absence, and quite dissimilar for I emitted no light, unseen I remained. With patient and modest seriousness she continued, the men at her feet wallowed in thirsty discomfort, I saw them form queues in their eyes and await judgement. Each holding a goblet of deep burgundy wine, I had peered inside one before, they never seemed to empty, such was the fastidiousness of Laska. He like myself moulded his very flesh into the dark spaces. She spoke again.

-…all things are wearisome, no one is able to speak of it, the eye is not satisfied at seeing, neither is the ear filled with hearing, here we find contentment to be an ant-instinct, something flawed and subdued…

Something kindred to the darkness, she was beauty and shadowy felinity. Her suppleness of tongue was an omen in itself, every inclination that rested in the hearts of her guests was malevolent, yet a malignity eager to be commanded, willing to offer their terrible absolute acquiescence. They had come equipped with a diligent self-outwitting, an exhaustive mortality wooed them, their own vigour of conscience had mislead them, I feared her and pitied them. I like Belshazzar had become a solitary self concern. It all began in the curious tones of an eye, that would catch the fading light behind the wall, which sagged with a loathsome burden of disrepair. That flowering wall where I would climb a whole summer away, rummaging with the butterflies in the tight sultry air of mid afternoon. Pastures grey and stoic, hurried bird song tickles a thin branch and I can hear the cavalcade approaching. Standing upon the wall, I could spy the sleek black cars, tiny flags flapping on the bonnet. Though my blood flows warm, a chill would subdue me at the sight of their too proud too fervent asinine brashness. Looking back toward the mansion, it had an air of debauched righteousness, a brothel cloaked in the rich robes of a monastery. In the pacifying heat, I spied out my window on the high veranda. Laska could be seen tidying with a broom, he waved and I waved also. From that a word flooded room, the breathe of odour, to invoke their corpulent parlour suits. That tumultuous half intellect ghoulish in its simplicity. Their eyes now lost to dark cold spaces, glass altars with deep cracks unseen, the putrid sick feeding on the fetid cadaver they left behind. Each man would retire to his personal abominable sukkah and await a terrible fate. Laska left the room to feed Belshazzar and I followed gladly.