Incanting Northward Ashen Folds of Incandescent Mourning Clouded Kohl

Hence, as the human body is 300 minutes in length, 50 in width, and 30 in height, the length of the ark [of Noah] was 300 cubits, 50 wide, and 30 in height.
          —Agrippa1

                    CCC.

Frolic in pain, expelled from the garden, exiled for an eternity in a moment, not the only one, though, of which you are both made,

but the only ones we know who were escorted out of Eden some great distance thence by two scorching stars ablaze with torments as glittering ornaments fizzling raging spark to its definitive extinguishing dark, and at dizzying pace,

not exterminating but estranging angels taking on a very large array of telescoping shapes, fixating lessons of lenses on making outer they whose inner worlds mirrored the paradise their transgressions are attempts, to this day, to recreate in every space,

loneliest guardians of its gates taking no prisoners as they carried away, in sea changes, those imperfect storms with blank faces awaiting fate before its dictates came into play,

errant wardens warding from the firmament its disgrace, serpentining restrictive affliction constricting this ambition of our first parents from ever again returning, of motivating them to independent defiance,

weakening their descendants ever since, temptation giving in increments glimpses of satisfaction unrepentant as they were then, what instinct within us itches to conflagration the tar of this flash paper our fictive urges rub against,

convictions against questionable intentions generating friction, of ideation to flaming expression gripping as ink does dripping calls to action across parchment parched with thirsting for experiment,

                    L.

for its indictments to be worked into curses by operant magicians hell-bent on performing miracles more perverse than ones heaven-sent, wounds bending around swords of tongues words not unlike our own,

sprung throat-song sung sending echoing what weight thrown bones hollowed by aching diasporas carry where their marrow once was warmed from soils cold,

embargoed cargo beheld by those who behold catastrophes as ongoing memories worth going through, ritualized emotions rusting gold, emboldened as though in their breaking the only thing broken was an amphora of home,

spilling notes onto lips pressing coins into defixiones, minting moans kissing away tarnished currency spent by merchant sons ferrying phantom choruses, mouthing holes carrying leaden plates collecting and transporting transferences, negatives positived, seconded opinions exchanged for prints illustrating what experience pain paints,

projecting phalanxes of missed opportunities in torn tunics of faded shades dressed as traumas mistaken for major breakthroughs, never waking to dreams of progress playing out its dawnings on,

dusk marching from sun-flushed markets, ghosts in our veins incanting northward ashen folds of incandescent mourning clouded kohl, ashes held close, persuasive remains reality attempts to reclaim, when closed our eyes’ lids are veils across wells by the exhaustion of remembering stretched until thinned,

curtailed curtains of shadow spread like lies with which rumours collide, the walls of which tears fall against as they fill, shrouded with tattered clouds a whispered fiat intoned like a wind and breathed out like a breath scatters to the hills,

                    XXX.

only then will we get how they must have felt is how, in fact, we now feel, banished inhabitants of one flesh contending with a wealth of millennia to rend its enemy sent to imprint on our forbidden skin that first generation’s debilitating sin, deafening and defining,

stigma stinging a map onto chests and backs the scratched, pricked paths of which our lovers’ devious and seeking fingertips trace all over the place our biggest and more insidious deepest secret mistakes, the same way fugitives do those pedigrees whose lineages we always erase the next day,

replace with a different goal the time this takes as toll for its disservice to soul, and these ghouls whose vehicles we are turn to stone, monuments of men overturned in the attempt of softening its grip, lumping throats, choking them with regret,

this curse’s foothold on our movement, preventing from ever settling two troubadours much too accustomed, in our swooning chants of dissonant descent, to being let down to prove wrong that together we come from disappointment, so that we might end the lowering of our own expectations, and trust again being trusted, without audiences,

relenting not to resentment or sunsetting anticipations of vagrant existences, but establishing, instead, doorsteps unfettered forces better than bitterness darken as friends do once welcomed, boots blackened with dust of travels our rivals wish happened to summon them,

misadventuring from the bottom to the summit again, no second chance wasted, no waiting on hours to hand us rotations procrastinating only lengthens, long enough has our punishment been,

this wandering astray, as did Cain’s, of children damnation plagues, for once let us face our fate, and in one place stay long enough to embrace what such ancient infamy brings, familiarity family evades, and rejoice at the noise of the fray this fringe of ours we enjoy incites, and celebrates.

__________
1Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, “Chapter 27: Of the proportion, measure, and harmony of the human body” in “Book Two: The Celestial World” of Three Books of Occult Philosophy: Translated from the Original Latin Edition of 1533 by Eric Purdue, published at Rochester, Vermont by Inner Traditions in 2021; page 361.