The Book


Canto 1 Canto 2 Canto 3 Canto 4 Canto 5 Canto 6 Canto 7 Canto 8 Canto 9 Canto 10 Canto 11 Canto 12 Canto 13 Canto 14 Canto 15 Canto 16 Canto 17 Canto 18 Canto 19 Canto 20 Canto 21 Canto 22 Canto 23 Canto 24 Canto 25 Canto 26 Canto 27 Canto 28 Canto 29 Canto 30 Canto 31 Canto 32 Canto 33 Canto 34 Canto 35 Canto 36 Canto 37 Canto 38 Canto 39 Canto 40 Canto 41 Canto 42 Canto 43 Canto 44 Canto 45 Canto 46 Canto 47 Canto 48 Canto 49 Canto 50 Canto 51 Canto 52 Canto 53 Canto 54 Canto 55 Canto 56 Canto 57 Canto 58 Canto 59 Canto 60 Canto 61 Canto 62 Canto 63 Canto 64 Canto 65 Canto 66 Canto 67 Canto 68 Canto 69 Canto 70 Canto 71 Canto 72 Canto 73 Canto 74 Canto 75 Canto 76 Canto 77 Canto 78 Canto 79 Canto 80 Canto 81 Canto 82 Canto 83 Canto 84 Canto 85 Canto 86 Canto 87 Canto 88 Canto 89 Canto 90 Canto 91 Canto 92 Canto 93 Canto 94 Canto 95 Canto 96 Canto 97 Canto 98 Canto 99 Canto 100

Canto 1

I’ll tell my story to you in this poem,
A metaphysics and a pure narration.
There was a college near my childhood home;

I went there looking for an occupation
And talked to someone about truth and art.
She was a teacher, I said I was Jason.

She said who she was. So we sat apart.
It made me happy to be at her side;
In me she saw the ascetic aesthete.

A job was offered me; my work was good.
I feel a motive when there’s a demand,
And I had loads and loads to write about.

She needed things researched. I took her hand
And promised her my work in seven days.
We two were of one mind when I returned

From having dreams about the other’s ways.
She had, for her part, notions of me then;
She knew my type. Her thoughts in any case

Can be ignored, we’ll see them soon enough.
And she invites me to be better friends,
To be her lover, secretly to meet

And talk, and enjoy time, and be two minds
Within a cold but loyal long embrace.
And as our second interview unwinds

Into a scene of love, the lady says:
‘I have experiences to give to you,
That will make other poems seem mere verse.

Trust me to lift the dress on what is true
And let you see it.’ ‘Will the poem tell
The truth of life?’ She nodded. Reader, know,

That what’s prophetic is what’s beautiful.
These sonnets penetrate and show the law
As science does, and, intellectual,

They talk about our time in metaphor
About a man, like you, for whom God is absent
Man in a web spun by an absent spider.

Canto 2

My old school friends, they’d kept me company For years since leaving school, Silley and Pru. Silley and my lady spent a day with me. We went out to a mountain whose plateau Had stones on it, placed in a rocky circle, Laid out a lot of centuries ago. The lady spoke of England, and I found My eye was watching Silley in sexual tension; For Silley gazed at her, her, smooth and kind, A serpentine cold sweetness. Apprehension Of those two loving one another drives My heart toward jealousy, holds my attention. She talks of ethics in England; my eye moves Toward the enchanting eyes in her white face. Time passes, and from woods nearby arrives The sound of song and a familiar voice. My other friend from school days, Pru it was. Since last we met this boy had not changed much, And being so English this was no surprise. For Englishmen have no distinctive feature: His music’s dull, there’s nothing in his eyes. Pru brought sheet music and brought his guitar, Came walking upward, smiling, and perhaps It was not chance that us three sat with her. Pru played the lyre a bit, pulled out the stops, Then all four of us talked. I sat in silence While he described his artworks, and his hopes. The conversation led to poesies And this was more congenial, for still Pru read and wrote verse, very rare these days.

Canto 3

Are poems to be found or read at all? - And no-one heard the poetry of Jason. Pru said: ‘The poems of the west are full Of world renouncing silent meditation, A deep stream with no outlet here above Except the Catholic Church, or such. Creation In Yeats and Eliot told that secret life.’ I stood and paced about: I had no name In the lineage of Stalin, or of Jove, Not good or bad, I had no power or fame In the world of letters yet, and, unrelaxed, Ambitious in my heart, I wanted them. This mood came to me often with attacks Like those that Goethe speaks of in his book Called Truth and Verse. The demon had me fast. I was a no-one, yet I wanted luck, I thought of absolute mind, but soon a force Was stopping all that peace, dragging me back. Impersonal force of selfish feelings was There burning in me, burning me alone, While Silley gawped at her, and Pru made verse. It was this blackening urge not to be man But to be greater that I struggled with. She sat with us three, there, at evening. She spoke when I sat with her in our mirth. She asked me, as the sky grew rosy red, If we would like to know a great, old truth. ‘You know, these myths and poems you have read? Wisdom they are supposed to hold, you know? You know the Eucharist of the dead God, The one who rises, burning like the sun? I’ll tell the story and pose no kind of riddle. While there is God, there’s also more than one. That is a fact. I do not idly meddle In minds like yours, the minds of little kids. Now clear a space, let me stand in the middle.’

Canto 4

‘I will not play, but show the immortal gods Against which your Church and synagogues advise, For gods and ghosts do reign over human heads.’ She ceased, and that white skin and those blue eyes Were thrown aside in shifting of the air Around the form she wore, and there she was: An upright snake and tall, a splendid pair Of reptile wings emerged from either shoulder: Heroic arms and legs, a knowing stare. She scared me so I can’t recall, dear reader, I was ashamed, too, since I felt great lust. My vision blurred, I fainted. Sometime later, After I woke, she gained all of our trust By telling softly how we’re ruled by snakes: They raise us and they crush us in the dust. She pointed out to us what utter jokes The humans are that take the earth for what It seems to be; men love their own mistakes. They’re easily controlled because their blood Is made to be controlled from the beyond By devils living out of sensual sight. One day they’ll show themselves. They’ll say: ‘Behold Your rulers! Parents to an enslaved race Of docile victims.’ Aliens from of old, They work in quiet, manipulating those Who want to learn and be with them on top. Manipulating, organising vice - For certain vices please them: and the rape Of truth from out of men’s dull ears is just The easiest way. But let us make a stop.

Canto 5

So how should I invite the voice of muses To teach me words, now knowing all the cost? Inspired communications come from houses Beyond our common senses; there, a host Of unpleasant saurid things watch over us. And can extravagant verses gain your trust, You, reader, of an age of total loss Of true and pure Christian theology? When Joyce has made his common Ulysses Should my recidivating poesy Match up to austere realism’s power? I doubt myself, and yet let us just see. This goddess of the Moon, her lizard hour Come on her for my benefit and hers, Had showed herself; she showed her alien horror (And mixed with the erotics of surprise) To me and Silley and Pru with one intent: That we’d be free to be her sacrifice. These beings, they love our idleness and torment And see no good in random pain and torture, But only in molesting the innocent. It was the autumn then, but by the Easter She and some others planned to give me death In an old ritual manner: as the daughter Of Agamemnon gave, with murdered breath, The Grecian princes wind behind their sails, Placating gods who love death, says the myth.

Canto 6

In faithless ages, when the Prince of Wales Attends his mother robed in sacred signs, In hoary palaces and cathedrals, In dark times, without God, they do snake things. They love these rites and oaths and energies Which gather round those places like ley lines. I cannot write, I cannot speak, degrees Of anguish and humiliation bind me To think of it again. I’ll paraphrase Her words to us: at Easter (Muse remind me), A secret session of the gods would gather. Some aliens dressed as humans would command me To attend there and to give them what, together, They need in order to maintain their birth: A ritual where the rich and those who matter In life today, retain their link with Earth. Until that Christmas I’d be recognised Among the public and would know the truth. I’d go to town and, universally praised, Live as a lord, well dressed, accompanied By servants. I’d have pleasures organised, And parties, lessons; treated graciously By all the important people and by gods Prostrate before me, knowing also why I held such power over the human herds, I would be taught the mysteries of god, Be seated in the chairs where spirit lords Commune with those still living; and, more mad, I would sit at the zenith of existence On thrones atop the social pyramid.  

Canto 7

And see the heart of the elite’s persistence In the exercise of power. And after praying Toward the sun for joy, into the distance Of future times, I would return to playing Intoxicating games which please me most. They’d take the greatest pains to improve the straying That I was to enjoy; and interest Would be aroused in me for the obscure life Of my familiar serpent race; at last I would surrender to them without strife. Thus made to feel the love of elegance, And knowing how the amoral world works enough, I’d feel secure among the celebrants Who trick and play mankind year after year. By March I would be married to five serpents And after carnal intercourse, and desire Of a perverted sort, festivities To mark the turning of the solar year Would be begun, in which these atheists Would lead me to a banquet at St Paul’s. And at the Strand I would be met by priests Of royal dragon and lion festivals To attend me up the steps. Then, deep inside, Beneath high altars, in some darkened halls, There I’d find the magic hall, just wide Enough to seat the Earth’s global elect. Among man’s aimless leaders I’d be tied And then be stripped and cursed before a neat And sharp obsidian blade would be stabbed in, Pushed deep into my stomach, so my heart Could be removed and offered to the sun. Apparently, my willingness to die, Happy and conscious for them, was the one And only way of getting potency From this obscure and secret ritual In which the disembodied lizardry Could integrate themselves, both body and soul, Into the earthy flesh of Homo Sap. For otherwise their being’s virtual.

Canto 8

The four of us were on the bleak hilltop At night now, for her information’s thread Had reeled out and then in. The moon came up. ‘I won’t accept this’, Pru said, ‘I’d be mad To follow you.’ And yet before he spoke We knew that it was pointless, what he said. He made no other noise. The giant broke Into a wide and enigmatic smile, Defeating all our hope with word and look: ‘If you conspire to spend your time meanwhile In telling others of what, with your eyes, You’ve seen, consider these ways that you’ll fail. Sweet lullaby and fancy without honour Is all you find in a modern journalist. What do they care for you, a common loner? I’ll have you disappear and not be missed, Perhaps those closest to you will be hurt, Or have their money stolen, their home lost. You’ll have a serious accident one night, Your heart will fail while doctors see to you, And then you’ll be dismembered in a rite. But this is academic, for by now, You know there is no option. Let us go.’ The moon ascended slowly in the blue The sun departs revealing the night sky, And we three - with the thing which changed again Into the shape of that girl whom I knew Before this night as something, someone plain - We went down from the hilltop, going home Into the isolated life, and down.

Canto 9

But things were different, so in fact we came Before the hole which leads down into Limbo. Which is a place between the human realm And that in which I fear to look. This bardo, A place for spotless intellect alone A silent vacuum hid behind a curtain, The in-between or Waiting Room between This world and hers: that which lies au-dela. Without the hope of public reasoning, Alone with this fantastic poetry And lacking a transcendent God for Father, My voice failed, there was nothing to restrain me. I loved her though she lacked morality: Having no sense that she was being watched Or that she would be damned, forgot, or loved. Down here a sign should be put up to read; It should enjoin us to believe it’s true That prayer works, and that there is a God. It would read: ‘Welcome to the human zoo. All souls found here are an experiment, Captive to each other and the few. All things of land or sea or firmament Are the possession of an alien nation. Seek out absolute mind or else lament.’ The self and world are like the dark and light Flung on a screen by an immobile lamp. Perhaps our mind and that of God unite? But prejudiced and weak we crawl or limp To death as if it were the final state, And through life, all together, bored and damp We walk these days. These days I meditate To attune my mind to the eternal source. To be that mind and be immaculate. But in those days the moon goddess took me without force To her house, as I hoped that she would do; Without emotion I looked at her face While driving there. As for the other two, I saw those dead men in the rear view mirror. She let them out at home, Silley and Pru.  

Canto 10

That night, as those before, I, without horror Went off to sleep beside her, in a trance Because, as I suspect, I always saw her Out of the corner of my eye askance. Throughout my life I have been watched by eyes, These Watchers, guardian angels. Not by chance Is public life a shadow; and private lives A general waste. Because mild hypnotism Might be a feature of the universe To make the real more real. Neuroticism About being watched, and knowing how it is, And yet ignoring it: Capitalism And education could have made things thus. With technological indoctrination, And a whole lifetime’s waiting for a kiss From something real. My new dark situation Was a release at last. I lived in rapture Because the obscure had illumination. I woke next day reflecting on the nature Of all corporeal things. I was awake And recognised why time past and time future And our comportment to them bring bad luck. The humans I had known had been deluded, Our minds don’t work because all men are fake. My mobile phone was ringing and intruded Into the quiet. Mum and her husband spoke Of visiting a house that they had brooded On buying to let out, next to a lake. I did not let them think something was wrong; I put the phone down, then phoned up the snake. ‘I’m coming back now. Will not be too long. We’re going to have a talk about the excuse To give your friends and those you move among.’ And so I’d disappear leaving no clues. This learned doctor came in through the door To all appearance normal. She had news.

Canto 11

‘Now think with me, and drink from the Earth Soul’s paps, That’s why I chose you, and your little friends, And I will tell you everything perhaps. There’s little time left now before this ends; You’ll make a record of what we have done, There’ll be a conscious record in men’s minds. That is the point,’ she said. ‘Now see this vision.’ And I: ‘What are these things, these things that come, A crowd of people who like leaves are blown, Or like bird congregations during autumn At evening when light flees the firmament?’ ‘Such a group,’ she said, (who at that time Was like the Moon Goddess for one sweet moment), ‘Who live in heaven and hell, another place, And do not die; by power and lust so bent That their pure mental fire, despite decease, Burns on, to be reborn, to fabricate Another flesh on earth among your race. They inspire in you by secret means a hate And love, and mystic bloody corporal pains, And then give suck on you, insatiate.’ ‘You mean the gods, the undying, and the ones Who rule are often these, this serpent breed?’ She laughed, ‘Not often: always. So, in chains The human race has been since it was made. There has been some resistance in men, though Unconscious of our enigmatic creed.’  

Canto 12

‘Yet these are ghosts and spectres I see through, They can’t feel pleasure, insubstantially They move and are’. They moved about her now. ‘This one likes our marriage’, she points and says, ‘Quite interested, this one, Cleopatra With Paris, Tristan, Ninus, here Achilles. He who, draped in a horny skin of armour, Went out to Troy to give the provinces Of Europe its first epic, and its future.’ ‘Achilles!’, ‘Yes! and all the Trojan princes.’ ‘And Cleopatra?’ ‘And her various lovers, Phoenix, and dragon, snake. Through each advances The evil over which your history hovers, The being of these is and was an ET, A pagan intellect pulled the human levers The human spirit was usurped from its body They usually don’t know the situation. But now you do.’ She ended. The confetti Of ghosts came, with desire and hesitation To let me see their faces, to be heard By me. To know that I was their creation By means of their researches did not hurt, Not even, yet, the servile end of man. But that the world historical climate I’d read and studied, thinking it was mine, That all the history which filled my head, Was a duplicitous semi-human song And never - without joining the deceit, Could I be part of it - this made me ache, And horrified me, made me eyes weep blood.  

Canto 13

For, anyone who reads the heavy book Of history, he’ll find a paragraph And more than one where he will read and speak: ‘I see my own life in this distant stuff.’ ‘And can I speak to them and do I dare?’ I said, and she: ‘This reptile philosophe, A dry half-breed, the Duke of Bedford’s heir, Whose family began reformist quarrels And funded new banks with the Opium War. Speak to him if you want.’ His Nobel laurels Were on his head (the poet’s crown of hell). He spoke through shining grey blue eye, as follows: ‘Half-deceived, myself, I was, as well. In life I gave to sin a pleasant image. It’s harder for an intellectual Sometimes, to be freed from the alien message; And I did more than any of my days To give the hollow man a human visage: Releasing his desertifying ways Upon society. Remember this: The aliens bred those first who have blue eyes And whitish skin, mixing their blood with theirs. And those with this complexion find it harder To find a path out of these desert wastes.’

Canto 14

‘Cold-blooded reason I proclaimed with ardour, Unable to perceive my own confusion. And leaving Bloomsbury I called for murder And nuclear strikes upon the Soviet Union, And with a false forked-tongue I argued always For mankind to be king, each in submission - A world subdued by the United Nations. But there is time to find out just how stupid I was. You can’t escape. See indications Henceforth that isolation is the fluid In which we live, and sleep, and have our death. The mind lives on, idealistic liquid Turned into ash, and then to burning breath As I am now. Remember afterwards When travelling down with her beneath the earth, You’ll find consideration and kind words Are few, beneath earth’s mantel, where the crowds Of heartless people serve the alien lizards.’  

Canto 15

He vanished from the garden and the turds Left by a moon-faced dog near to a shrine; I saw a shrine set up with frothy curds Of blood which ghosts drink, Homer says, like wine. How one may see such incorporeal souls With ordinary eyes I can’t explain: We went inside the house. This violation Made on me by the ghosts and by the maid Was never an unpleasant aggravation, Because the truth is sweet and worth the trade Of life for early death. And I had plans To know the ends of life and yet evade The ends she planned. In the exuberance Of that day I got ready to take risks And yet remain with her to see the heavens. She told me that I had a couple of tasks, To tie up all the knots of my existence, To make my disappearance real. She asks How I would hold the Army at a distance, (I worked for them). I telephoned the Captain In charge of personnel, to face the questions.

Canto 16

She packed a stove and tins on the back seat; We got into the car. The motorway Slouched by as we made progress to the part Of England that she’d claimed for heritage At bureaucratic meetings recently. It was a hillside near to Avebury. Thus ruminating lands which anciently Belonged to no-one, rich parts of the earth, Are conservation areas now, effectively No longer open as a place or path For those who live; reserved for exploitation Or waste for use by those of alien birth. My luck ran out that day. For information On what was what, I left the car and trailed Behind her, knowing her, in expectation Of revelations: all my luck had failed. For many years this muse was in my dreams: A leader, woman, demon lover, called By me ‘the Muse’, in enigmatic poems About high intellect. And so at last After this waiting, finally she comes: My Beatrice who redefined the past, The future, and the present. Here’s a tunnel, A cavern by a grove of trees overcast.  

Canto 17

‘You’re going in – without force.’ Here’s a panel She pushed aside revealing a descent, And a sort of sewer-like spring beneath the manhole. That was the end of me. Why were you silent Throughout the days of youth until a sorrow Turned into my heart’s regular black garment, Holy Spirit, O God? And now tomorrow I won’t be capable of being at home. She came to me when culture had reached zero. The rocky pathway took me from the autumn At the year’s decline, from life where men’s eyes fail. I’ve counted days and now the Winter’s come. To what can I hold on, and what is real? A dream alone is real, I realise, Even in delight I lived a life most vile. And now there’s no time left. Now former days Are gone. My foolish heart and stupid trust Was always trying to ignore what really was. Up there’s the field, the rough work of the harvest I’d do that now, and love the rain and sun, The mud and grass, now that those days are past. She said: ‘It’s cold and we have travelled all the day. There’s frost and ice down here, an icy place; The fires of misused intellect at play Are cold and bright in hell. Here is no trace Of that old unreal kingdom of the day; The light of our city speaks of weariness.’  

Canto 18

‘Our city is down here, as you will see.’ And I: ‘Whose night world is it? And what season Is it down here?’ ‘The moon and sun hold sway But by celestial influence and reason Not by their light, apparent place, or mass. But understand this by means of this lesson. I’ll tell you of a life lived fine as moss Upon those trees you love, of souls like dew Which studs the grass at morning, As soft as magic. They move fast and slow And soft as air vibrate in the moon’s light In stellar sympathy, heartless to you. Love’s thin, like grass, for us, ever so slight. Ours is a ruined mind and light, like the gods We love just for a day or for a night. The best of us are insubstantial moods, Pure intellect compared to your rough clay, Like smoke from fire, and we are the night breeds! She ceased and yet the voices of the tree Above on land were heard, for the human bent Going through my blood and through the brain in me Like the season of the animal and plant, Made me nostalgic for each entity, Each thing above, each in its element.  

Canto 19

I slept and dreamed of her Society Born on another planet from old time, Committing crimes against humanity. I dreamed of praying to Christ and God amongst them Even while they tried to buy my soul and breath. I gave up soul and ego in the dream Without a care, for this is also sooth, Without Christ minds are also fake. Awakening next morning I was both Without care for my ego and awake To all the danger that the secret city Would manifest, so I could write this book. We ate together, then I boiled some tea Then moved off. Soldiers on reconnaissance Make hand-signals to sentries as their party Returns from its patrol back to the fence Of its own lines, just so my mistress made An enigmatic signal in response To a dim form which stood, a silhouette, Before a darkness visible before us. It was a man’s form stood before a gate.  

Canto 20

And next to him, the symbol of Tammuz As I would learn, a lion couched prostrate; This living symbol, of allegories Was the first one I saw in this estate Which every way belonged to the master race. The lion saw me with its share of hate. ‘What is this no-one doing in our place? You can’t bring that disgusting mortal ape Within the walls of our paradise,’ The soldier spoke. The lion took a step Advancing with its mane shifting about. ‘It’s authorised from the lowest level up. Now present arms, stand to attention, shit!’ She scared him with her voice and pulled me hard Beyond him, though he swung his rifle butt, And then presented arms like any guard (Rules and obedience are a second nature For lizard breeds, let it be understood).

Canto 21

We must have followed steps into the crust Of England all the night, about a mile, Until that gate. With lighted torch we passed Through some fantastic bolt-upright hall Cut in the mantel’s heart by engineers Until a light revealed a vehicle. For there is transport there, exceeding ours And not powered by combustion, something else. We took the train, and sat down in its chairs. And in time we arrived where some heart pulse Of a great meeting point encompassed us. The train slowed at a site of massive halls, A dome of greater room than all King’s Cross And just as beautifully dead sedate. As you looked up you saw a thousand stars Encrusted in the ceiling intricate. Some of the stars were brighter in their sheen As if to show where They originate. We exited the train. A unicorn And dragon statant, upright either side, Pawed at a doorway where we went, within. Empty and without reference these symbols, Did they mean something once? These crowned heads, Sure, once they meant order, but no-one recalls.  

Canto 22

A man-shaped thing in black and with black shades Opened the archway door. A flaming bier Carved from white marble burns and dim light sheds Around a room so empty, so austere, That loneliness and luxury have never Appeared to me so lovely and so rare. Above the flame there was a dove hung over The distant floor below, again from marble. And finally, beyond it I discover A circular red rose and a stone table Around which, facing us two, are six shapes Who were, my mistress told me, famous people. My lady said: ‘Now, you will learn the ropes. You see this is a special place, these symbols Both bring in mental force and cause collapse Of consciousness and moods. A sign dissembles For although people use them, they embody An esoteric force deep down. Examples Are seen in the blue emblem of the party Of Toryism. But don’t be misled: They’re arcane power centres for the bloody And fierce giants from whom we were bred. Men once made word and symbol point to God That’s over now. Today they are ours instead. Our colony on earth was made by Nimrod And his gigantic spouse; they altered man And taught him things, before they crushed his spirit.’  

Canto 23

We walked; our steps were echoing one by one With each step closer to that distant desk. ‘Who are they? I’m afraid. Please, if you can Tell me what your name is, can I not ask? Do you have names? You have not told me yet.’ And she: ‘Ah, later. First complete this task. These men or half-men here are some of the best On Earth. You know them. There is one superior Among them; he is of the highest set, Even in the ranks of our dragon empire. But quiet.’ We were right beside the chairs. My lady bowed herself like an inferior, And knelt before just one of them who stares At her, and then her eye sees me and lingers And pierces me, immobilising as The evil eye is said to curse with dangers. This one was of the Windsor heritage And yet I cannot be precise: my fingers Will not input the letters on the page I’m so afraid of feeling its revenge. The other five were also of our age But recognisably out of her range Of status, and incredibly enough, A grand deception was in this melange.  

Canto 24

My lady nodded first to Gorbachev, The Russian President who set in motion The ruin of his people, selling off The country’s wealth, after the fake commotion Of the Cold War. So Russia became free For overt Capital and false election. Next, Mrs Clinton, Foreign Secretary Of the USA, she who enlarged the slum Of poverty in every Earthly country, Manipulating so that the UN Would take charge of the people as their sister. Next her a dusky man named bin Laden, Not nearly so much of the lizard lustre Was in his rebel actions or his thoughts, Because he was a servant of a master. And near the Saudi, at the very heights Of human serpentine sexual conjunction Was George Bush Senior, who through cash and courts Had forced his imbecilic son to function As handy servant of the obscure agenda Who ruined the Muslims with such inhuman action That they accepted wickedness for candour And thought of amoral empty murders as The natural way of things for man hereunder.  

Canto 25

And finally, as if to make the case As clear and definite as possible That what is good is what is meaningless And that nobody lives by principle, There sat the ‘dead’ Saddam Hussein to match, In black beret and general’s epaulette. This man whom Bush had given his life to catch, To put on trial, had always been the mere Foreground incentive to destroy Iraq. The Clinton rose and put her face quite near, So near me I could feel her sickening breath, And she was thriving off my shock and fear. The Bush stood up as well: ‘This one’s alive And pure enough to start the rite on now, Why bother waiting?’ she said, and her mouth Took on a horrifying toothless hue, Her hair departed from her head, revealing Two horny bumps – and yet was that weird glow No more than an hallucinatory feeling I had about her? Senior Bush was shifting Between two sorts of face as well, but reeling Away from them. I saw the Royal lifting Her hand to put an end to their impatience. With blazing eyes they sat. I started drifting From trauma through to trauma until conscience Departed me and I departed life. The horror of this crowd and their deceptions So undercut my standard sense of stuff I took no more and passed out into sleep. ‘Saddam, from Babylon, you know enough About the secret history that we keep Hidden from men, so you can undertake To tell what will, no doubt, cause him to weep.’  

Canto 26

Thus Clinton, who began when I came back. My mistress had me sat down with a glass Of some expensive wine and fags to smoke. And then the Iraqi leader spoke like this: ‘It’s no doubt strange to talk to a dictator Considered dead. We always introduce The victim to the reality of the matter Of who we really are with such a tactic: By pulling back the curtain now not later – Disclosing the deception in dramatic Manner which cannot be denied. Let’s say: Not arguing with a gradual dialectic, But showing the substance clearly; in this way The victim’s mind is, like a curtain, torn As if his door were opened with a key. Of course I did not die, my death was staged. Like many politic wars, the one begun To catch me was inaugurated, urged By an inhuman agency. No man Will ever in a natural state imagine A plausible ground, or find the heart within A reason for that type of strange campaign. O, they say that the invasion was for oil or money And this is closer to it. But let’s be plain: No plan from the head of common man has any Point or purpose, except that he survive. Humans do not die, they live, like the uncanny Survival of those things not fit to live And so not fit to be damned, or even to die. And this is something, poet, you can prove. What’s not alive can’t die, it’s just a zombie; And humans are just that, unmortalised When they set sin aside, and grasped divinity.

Canto 27

‘H. Sap., from out of faunal dumbness raised, Made upright, lingual, spiritualised, erotic, And seeded, crafted, intellectualised, Was made to mate and love, with sympathetic Vibratory feelings and a finite seeing; His heart yearns and is satisfied, he’s prophetic - A speaking, halfway opening up of being, An empty space from which, as from the pouch Of a flower, a stamen rises, with a pang Of seeking, feeling, reaching out for touch. A good benevolence made from the low, A being made to sin, but also search To find himself in God the Father’s shadow. He would be weak and freely learn the truth. He would give words and time to silent, slow Stars like the Sun, and planets like the Earth. That’s what you should be, learning selfless ways Purifying daily your own heart from birth, Learning to teach the Empyrean how to blaze. But that is, obviously, not what you are. Blame those who interfered in later days. A group arrived, invading, coming far Across dimensions, space, and time. Discreet And cruel, yet few, adventurous and rare, They interposed themselves in open sight, Proclaiming themselves gods, and gods as humans, A technological strength and a cold insight, Which soon usurped the unsupervised alliance Of innocent and fertile human kind With cosmic Order and its ancient plans.’  

Canto 28

He did not smile or give gesture, just his mind Was working as he worked his mind on me, But I was missing something. ‘Understand,’ I put in, but the Royal instantly Attacked my mistress with a hail of blows, Screeching and hissing: ‘Make this shit thing be God damned quiet! Quiet or who knows But I will have you skinned!’ My mistress sank Beneath the battering fists onto her knees. Remorse and shock, attendant as I think On deep confusion and yet also pity Came on me looking at this snake of rank. For minutes there was silence, the committee Stared from its several eyes to the eyes of each, While the Windsor was recomposed. ‘The city Will show you things when you go on your search. I cannot read your mind, we cannot read The mind, although the hierarchy can hatch Ideas, and thoughts, hallucinations, breed Thoughts in modern men; they are snakes, all ranks; Corrupted easily by pride and greed. And I suppose you want to know some things Relating to our motives, both for you, And for the earth in general. Pleasant songs Shall be composed about us and our coup; A day will break when the ancient origin Of reality on earth will shine anew Told and displayed, openly known again. But prior to that the high spiritual level Must be debased, spoiled with our antigen.  

Canto 29

For years, each day, subjected to this evil Emotionally intellectual humans, Abducted youths, and dumb old men, unravel And breath their last out listening to our summons. We first enlighten them before they burn. We need despair, and fear of pain, we demons. That opening which you are must be closed down. This cannot be achieved by simply cutting The life short, draining breath from dying men. You see, the spirit endures beyond the rotting Of an unburied and despoiled corpse Of mammal bodies. Your soul must attain To a state of lucid apathy; all hopes Should be reduced, all goodness finally squashed And, as it was in Orwell’s gloomy tropes The human face forever must be crushed Beneath the foot of the serpent’s righteous foot, Forever crushed overtly, ever smashed. Coercing humans, stealing from them, but There’s hardly a person left now, all are lizards! And total coverage, control, a world state Controlled by a world government which must Insinuate itself. The preparations Are being made, with an ironic twist. For example, alien sightings, and abductions Increase in tempo, media coverage Is given to these, and soon when space invasions Are threatened, panic spreads, a UN pledge To unite the world against them leads all states To submit to the police, the leading edge Of which is the alien incumbent which creates That same UN and Nato for that purpose. And till then forward pressure never abates.’  

Canto 30

The triple shame of being a sacrifice, To have my life extracted like some essence Left on a filter paper by a chemist, The shame and anger at the great pretence, And finally this ineluctable fate, Made tears run from my eyes in impotence. I didn’t care to see my friend be beat By the Royal thing again, and so demurred. The regal asp (Diana found that out) Began to speak: ‘You will be overawed By such great beauties we have built below. We’ve mined a town down here like that a lord Of Trojan lineage built as his New Troy. They call it London, knowing not its name With Paris, and with Rome, long time ago, The town was started by heroes who came When their first steps in Europe had been made And that was what Troy was to us, our home. London itself is more than a façade Impastoed over a subterranean hell To which you are going. It is well arrayed In all the deviant arts and cruel will Which we inherit and pass on to you. This city is all technological.’  

Canto 31

‘With the scientific biological lie, Also the lie of money and finance As well as banking power’s piety, We made that atheist cockney world-sink whence The plans for war and raping of the land Are hatched with perfect docile good conscience. This, where so many millions grind and grind Unhappily and strangely, generation On generation is a glorious land.’ She spoke. Then Bush amended her oration; With something of the lecher in his tone The evil of his slackened concentration Always lacks focus unless smelling gain: ‘You thought that this was your land, didn’t you? You loved it in your way, and felt at one With Queen and country, thought indeed your Queen Was just like you? Superbly traumatised By school and adolescence you have been.’ Note: the ‘Windsor reptile’, I insist, is not the Queen.

Canto 32

When Bush had finished so the meeting closed; My lady took my hand gently in hers Resenting her own kindness I supposed. ‘Then men are reptiles now, or dinosaurs? Like snakes cast out of Eden in their sin, And happy in sin, across the universe. While I, am I yet human, I alone? And that’s the reason that you keep me close To finally kill me? If so, carry on.’ ‘Yes, very true’, she said, ‘But how many famous Or powerful, brilliant men can you recall, Who did not, on the contrary, dismiss Or make such obscure lives impossible? Consider the façade of Roosevelt Engaged in war alongside Winston Churchill; This couple hailed from families of wealth Got running drugs; they planned to run the war To ruin the diversity and health Of Europe. Do you think there ever were Ideas of coming to England in the head Of robot Hitler, black magician, whore To the demands of our perverting breed? The war was fought to secularise The common people,’ smiling, thus she said.  

Canto 33

‘Mammalian humans always must disclose Their evil thoughts to each other or remain Indifferent to each other. And that is Just how the plan Had been devised by the benevolent Gods that made you when your time began. Enough, I’m weary of this argument As weary as a song heard many times.’ She kept hold of my hand now as we went To keep us moving through the empty rooms. The rooms and halls we passed were like an aisle In some great church down which a couple comes To have their marriage. For mile after mile It seemed to me. Until, a waking vision Broke in upon my senses: each gargoyle And every brick of sandstone on Big Ben, Each tile and stone, King Richard’s metal cast Outside, we found refigured with precision; The Palace of Westminster in a vast Rough hewn-out cavern. It seemed people worked In this ersatz creation, for they passed Into the entrances, and others talked Behind the windows overflowing with light. So we approached and through the archway stalked. No guard inspects us as we pass the gate, And so we walk together to the crypt. There was a room. As it was getting late We ate, prepared two beds, lights out, then slept. For two whole days I stayed in this romance. A Gothic palace in soft sleep enrapt: It is, and was the reptile heart of finance. Now money is considered the chief matrix Controlling people. That is ignorance. For people kill and die for dialectics, They know their inner essence is idea, But money has no heroes or fanatics.  

Canto 34

The energy vibrating in an area Can shape what people do, or think is real But money cannot make an atmosphere. Its luxury and trickery don’t appeal Unless we can consent to being tricked. Therefore, the economic alien rule Was at the level that I first unlocked. The deeper villanies were lower down. My lady sat with me as breakfast cooked, The cafeteria was empty then: ‘We do not,’ she began, ‘Eat food to exist, Our proper food is dead despair and pain. That is the food of insubstantial mist Which swarms about the London population Without which, even as spirits, we can’t persist. Our bodies have a different condition; Our bodies grow and die and must be nourished; Originate in standard copulation Between human and alien. We have flourished While humans offered us the means to join The alien spirit with a human carriage. The link occurs most strongly when the brine Of female blood or children’s living breaths Are drunk and sucked in rituals we design.’ ‘That last account has made me nauseous,’ I said, ‘You don’t expect me to believe You use up children’s lives like fuel, like meths To intoxicate yourselves and to survive?’ ‘So what do you think that growing up and aging In modern England is when God is not alive?’  

Canto 35

Enough for now, let’s eat and I will bring You to the heart where men are made to turn A blind eye to this commerce with the young.’ ‘Where, here, in Westminster?’ I asked, but then One entered through the door of that café A spiritual thing, transparent, yet a man. ‘I’ll introduce myself, of the Medici Lineage, Lorenzo was my name.’ ‘A ghost’, I murmured, ‘Power which, for a fee, I bought with Leonardo at the game Of playing with the occult Mystery schools. We kept the knowledge of a secret flame.’ Encouraged by this newest of miracles I started eating while he carried on: ‘Most royal Isis, here one of the fools, An un-baptised, uncircumcised one You bring again, to learn the mysteries That are withheld from every freemason? I’ll bet,’ he spoke to me, ‘That the degrees Of knowledge of the arts of politics And finance are still new? The families Of bankers fund and hold the world with tricks First brought to us from medieval Venice. The sham’s so old, yet nobody can fix The evils of it: sure proof that the race Who hypnotise the humans do so still. In Venice first, then Amsterdam and since In London was the central banking hell. There, elite chosen ones were given licence By parliaments to give cash loans to all Who needed money. The elite had pence Not pounds, and nothing to loan out. By stealth Therefore, they gave the paper with the pretence That this cash cheque or paper was real wealth. The cheque ends up in someone else’s hands Who gives it to another banker’s vault No actual money has really done the rounds. The loan, however, must be paid in full, And, more importantly, the bank demands An extra quantity of money while The full amount has not been given back. And thus with time the bank gets cash for real And then the interest: all this from a cheque Which never was a thing but paper and ink! Whole towns, whole nations, willingly can take A loan out from a privately owned bank Consigning all the people to repay What was not given to them. What d’you think? Who benefits from this cupidity? The profits made in banking go to those Who from their birth love crime.’ He turned away. ‘Through there you’ll see how like a comatose, Your politicians turn when they are brought To London to sit in this royal Palace.’ We ate our English breakfast cooked in fat, And Isis, as I knew her now, found sausage Before her as she never did the part Of her Osiris, through the yearly passage Out looking for it, weeping anxiously.  

Canto 36

We three moved off from the refectory Along a hallway with electric light, And murals on the walls and tapestry Of battles and treaties. A door and slot Was on the right and Isis stops us all, Pulls a rope cord linked to a bell inside. A woman’s face looks at us through the grill; An ancient woman pulled the door aside. My guide walked past, proceeding through the hall; She knew the place well, nimbly she trod The uneven floor with care. Then there were steps Up to a courtyard. A small man appeared. He asked for any news. I see he keeps A beard and cheeks with rouge and bloodshot eyes And lipstick, homosexual perhaps. ‘Why is he dressed like that?’ I said; surprise Had made me smile and disregard the threat; Perhaps, ahead, there was no worse than this. But as my eyes responded to the light I saw it was the choir of some great chapel With stained oak stalls, an altar at the head. I stepped back then, a gloom quite horrible Was lit in smoky alcoves, and a fume Irritated my eyes with unguent trouble.

Canto 37

My lady led me onward through the room. Although this was the choir, I saw no nave And instantly I saw through all the gloom The Commons Chamber here. More like a grave, A tomb under the ground, with candle sticks Which pour out sulphurous light and make you heave. The goddess points toward a place and picks Her way between those sitting on the pews. From where we sat I saw mostly the backs Of those few hundreds, but I can disclose I saw John Major, Tony Blair, and Brown With Margaret Thatcher whispering and close. Just so this group of contraries were drawn Together by the coming of the Pope; Was it being mind-controlled which brought them down To here? and others too, cream of the crop, Those educated, all, at Oxbridge schools, The place in which the brightest put their hope And there excel because they know the rules, There educated well in what’s allowed A man to know; there, they had lost their souls. They were a quiet antisocial crowd. A choir boy dressed in red came down the chapel And lit the candles at the Speaker’s side. An altar was disclosed and tabernacle Above which hung a miserable Christ Whose face had been distorted with a ripple Of laughter as if torture made him pleased And an unusual bulge came from his loin. Another choir boy brings a cup, but first Lays out a white cloth on the altar, then Puts down the chalice, bending so his arse Spills out beneath his robes in a vile moon.  

Canto 38

A third choir boy begins to chant a verse, Then blows upon the embers at the altar Within a tripod, sending up dark fires And acrid smoke, which smelt of oily tar, Which made the congregation yet more tired. I whispered: ‘Is this like the real Westminster?’ ‘It’s no mere replica, but has been reared With the original stones of the old pile Which fell conveniently, and, not repaired, Were brought down here to serve our elite guile. By sympathetic magic what goes on In this black place is transferred to the real And active Palace,’ she fell quiet again. ‘Just let me ask another question, please,’ I asked, as much to make myself feel sane As learn more of these shameful mysteries: ‘Why do they mock and invert Christian rites, What good in ridiculing Christian stories?’ ‘They’re more than stories! Holy, godly inlets Of super physical benevolence, Aetherial interfering and good spirits Meet humans in Church, and feel no offence. Here we invert them. You will hate what follows Within this chamber, but the radiance Will be familiar to luxurious souls Like yours, which feed, like ours on black despair. What’s carried out here guarantees the hells Of lives snuffed out time after time from year To great year for those born on Earth. Let’s meditate on that while we are here.’

Canto 39

A sort of plainsong started from the mouth Of someone at the altar whose raised face Was straining tenor notes with heaving breath, Exhaling an enchanting ode to Venus While breathing rasping breaths of sulphurus smoke. ‘Who is it that officiates over this house, Singing the evening hymn?’ My lady spoke: ‘Those are the governors of your national bank, The Bank of England, named by double-speak, For it embezzles cash and steals the spunk, Of English people for a private guild Set up by traitors, secret men of rank. The prelate of this place, a certain Rothschild, Has a superior link with lizard kings And gives the orders to this brain-dead crowd.’ ‘You swear this is the truth about these things? The national money which our people owns Was instituted to enlarge the springs From which a dark elite can draw their loans And not repay them?’ ‘Quiet now!’ she hissed, For then, with horrible dislocated groans The congregation recognised the priest Was coming in. The smell of scorching oil Was wafting from an incensor he cast About him, such a suffocating smell. ‘These are the perfumes Lucifer our master Finds so agreeable!’ she rasped. I fell To watching her as she watched this disaster: Her pale face, tear filled eyes, and open lips, Her labouring breath and heart beat going faster.  

Canto 40

The banking priest comes to the altar, stops Then many kneel as he raises his head On which a crown with thornlike copper strips, A headdress without irony, was sat. Startling the concentration on his face! I realised this was not just a parade. This banker priest was fat but sinuous, His eyes were dead and inwards, apple seeds Too close together, slits beside his nose. He bent across the altar, raised his sights: The mass began. Below his short chasuble I saw the wrinkled skin above his tights, And there was dry blood and a scree of shell, Weeds and potatoes, vines about his waist, And a plump manhood drooping like a bell. He knelt and stood and sang with practiced haste While choir boys on their knees sang the responses. Then women from the stalls were brought the mist From smoking burners spilling incenses. They breathed and coughed intoxicating spice. The priest steps from the smoke and then pronounces:

Canto 41

‘Lord of enslavement,’ he said, on his knees, ‘Master of trickery, thievery, and the mad; Secret provision of all powerful vice Occlusion of abortions and spilt blood, Watch over those in need of medicines For lives which are intolerable to God. You, comforter of poverty and sins, Make blind the poor and let them count old scores And with new plans for vengeance fill their brains. Incite to boredom, give us joy in tears Of others and indifference to the truth. The yearning for the light with online stores Cover over, so there is no need for faith. You do not make demand that man feel love But welcome avarice and angry youth. You, teacher of reserve and cold reproof And sterile and hysteric laughter, hear! We implore you to destroy the Lord above Remove the trace of any weak desire To be exalted; let us be consoled By what is finite. Give us wealth and power, And, King, bring silence to those not controlled! We beg this from you on our knees, you Beast.’ He rose, spread out his arms, and spat out loud.  

Canto 42

‘And you, God, in the office of a priest, I call you down from heaven to incarnate here, You thief of love who put men to the test! You made them wait, in coward silent fear, You said you’d come in glory but you’ve slept! And while you kept your distance everywhere The banks have triumphed, simoniacs have slipped Into the hearts of humans with their commerce And by your negligence the good have stopped Believing in you, putting up with rumours And ridiculing of Biblical stories. Lazy, coward God!’ The whole house murmurs ‘Amen’, and the perverted man replies: ‘Now let the feast begin that resonates On prison Earth that up above us lies.’ Succeeding this a quiet reverberates Throughout the chamber. I was stupefied With the sublime obscenity of these rites. I saw the women’s nervousness subside, But then the smoky incense blew about, And filled their throats, while the London banker turned aside And gave the blessing with a fearsome shout. And suddenly the choir boys tapped their bells, Which like a siren induced some wild fit, For many of them leapt out of the stalls To fall down on the bloody dim lit carpet To kick their legs up, while emitting wails.  

Canto 43

In various postures. One is by the pulpit First on her stomach, then upon her back; She swells and cries, then dumbstruck, in the pit, She curls her tongue around her lips, all slack; Another, livid with dilated eyes Throws back her head and lets her body jerk While trying to catch her breath with wheezing sighs. Another lay extended full and flat And to reveal her breasts undid her blouse Streaming enormous dugs of skin and fat Beneath a terrifying mouth with tongue Outstretched between her teeth, red with her blood. Now London, he had formed a busy gang With other men about the dying Christ While leaning on the altar, them among. I sat up watching him, deeply oppressed At heart to hear him spitting abject meanness With all his violence, while below his waist One of the choir boys knelt and licked his penis. He shivered coldly, and with solemn voice Said Hoc est corpus meum, then turned upon us Displaying a haggard face to the choir boys Who raised his chasuble and wiped his wand With biscuits of the host until it sprays Tainting and dirty onto the paved ground. Staggered, I sensed hysteria in the air, It filled the great room, all those women round. They approached the priest with loose and sweaty hair, And licked and mixed themselves around the bread While one was barking, perched on the altar. An old one spun, then held its old grey head Then spun around again beside a girl Who leaned against the wall and groaned and spat, While Rothschild, robed in incense, gave them all The rotten food which some spread on their tits And others stuffed into a sickly hole.  

Canto 44

A painted choir boy, wrinkled, undressed, mates With other sodomites, while women, too Bend over, howl at death, and rend their heads. Asphyxiating, I was trying to go To get away. I looked for my mistress I saw her going through smoke, the couples through. She seemed to awaken from some inner stress Which made her brighter, bigger, far more real Than any normal girl. ‘An air like this Is more and more the smell on Earth as well. I want to go,’ she said, ‘Please let us leave,’ I said in turn, ‘Just get me from this hall, And later tell me how to find real love. This place makes me so terrified and sick I’m trembling; I can feel my stomach heave.’ We stepped over the bodies lying thick Along the carpet floors, purple and brown, Toward the doorway, followed, moving quick.

Canto 45

I was not learning esoteric thought And news from other places free of charge, But because I would be burnt up to give light To our aliens; I must give the demiurge All the spirit there is in me as an ‘I’. I’d be a sacrifice and they would purge All individuality from me. Debasing rituals offered to pervert The dream of power and rationality Within the British parliament blot out Identity, and blot me out just like The utter quiet of heaven can stop my heart. I stumbled out with Isis following quick; She wanted, I suspected, to remain. ‘Let’s go to that cathedral in white brick Across the square, your disgust will make you a saint, As he is exercised in human beings Debating, dreaming of him and his pain!’ ‘The Abbey…’ I said. O Spring of all things! Opening up to me in this attack Made by this alien princess; origins Of every being! what esoteric track Would we traverse to the core of history? We crossed the square, and through a street, then took A left turn heading for the sacred entry Of England’s Abbey. There were little snakes Which stared, and had a common ancestry With men. Their faces grey, their greyish necks Came out of shoulders draped with human linen: ‘What are these creatures filling in the cracks Of this place, dull and subterranean, Sweeping and guarding these false London streets?’ ‘They’re workers who have built the empyrean So far below the ground for no rewards. They’re harmless things or cruel by command, Manipulated easily with sweets.’  

Canto 46

So we continued talking. In the end We came into the entrance of that castle Of hymns and sermons, conscience sifting, and Shit; built in derision of the epistle The gospel, the Bible, gathered by those men Who near two thousand years ago flexed muscle To bear witness to the love of God for man, But the gods of this place ruled men with the mirror Of death. And few of them are Christian And flock instead around more recent error. If the Archbishop was not chosen from The elite and secret circle of true terror, He might as well have been. Within his home Upon the black and white tiles of the aisle My lady pointed to a crowd of them Who at the crossing sat slumped on a stall While something lectured them, a ten foot creature A dragon face, with gargoyle wings and tail. Instinctively I tried to stop this venture Which Isis had involved me in, I turned To get away, but at this point of juncture Let these words rather speak of what I learned And not describe the feelings that I had, (My fear of being tortured, knifed, or burned). As we came in the speaker smiled and stood As if with breeding; they had seemed to be Awaiting me and in a moment’s thought I worried that this was the day I’d die. Was this place, this church, where they’d steal my soul? ‘Why are they looking?’ I heard myself say.  

Canto 47

I turned to Isis. ‘Don’t be such a fool,’ She told me, ‘Get yourself some wine, then listen’. ‘The people know the saintly man is real, They know it in their gut. But how they fasten To the ‘survival of the fittest’ theme! That humanistic perfection as a notion. And so the beings which ascend above them Are thought of as ‘the fittest’ – richer, selfish, And, at the limit, dreamed of, gods, supreme. With thoughts and wants like this, swimming like fish Inside their heads, a need to be at the source - They’ll do for you whatever you could wish. Delinked from what they are, they’ll fight your wars Against each other, they’ll argue forever. Humans, they’re so proud, it is their curse. You must keep on top of them if the whole idea If us and them are going to rule this planet. The time is near. It’s very near, so near that you can smell it. The UN as an entity has grown, And forecast long before it saw the light. Since then it has not faltered or come down In status. Nothing shows its suspect side. The Nazi revolution and that clown, That Hitler, made the senseless justified For ever.’ These words floated through the air; The argument had more than satisfied The little group, among whom Kissenger, An old man now, the clearest proof of all That what this alien said is true and truer. For that man’s kingdom was the temporal, Yet close to president and president, Intent on bringing on the human fall. We’re always at the edge of the event When the deceivers will unveil the plan. The meeting ended and the humans meant To speak to me, they knew I was the one. But all they did was offer me some food Then disappeared. In me depression.  

Canto 48

I wandered through the alcoves, to the rood And, making sure I found the lights for each, I passed from room to room, strangely afraid. In the underground a sort of mystic switch Had to be pressed to evaporate my fear. Isis had left me to this plangent search. And finally, I found the Archbishop’s lair, Or its black magic cruel duplicate. Now let me tell you what I found in there. Without a body, faceless, inchoate The opened door revealed a watching eye Such that, as it was opened, so the lid Of that great eyeball opened up on me. Just such a watcher on the pyramid Of Egypt and in Mexico could be Imagined as the capstone. Silent lid Shifts on the fluid surface of the iris. Its alien body lived with the living dead In other worlds, obscure to this, yet porus. Now as I looked at it it stole my gaze. Just such a presence is the source of terrors To me even now, and when I tried to close The door it spoke to me, yet with a voice Which poured into my brain and not my ears.

Canto 49

I leant against the doorway, thinking twice And for a long time, tempted to go in, And so I did, with nothing left to lose. In consequence I learnt the master plan From this, the object of the cult and prayer Of our people, and the alien. It spoke: ‘You always knew that I was here; Surveillance, the all seeing, the discreet, Indifferent to you, you, one of the poor. They’re not aware, being random, mass produced, And without purpose in the greater scheme, But humans are an opening held fast To what is deeply running like a stream Flowing up into phenomena and life; A site for freedom, suffering, and time. It’s consciousness and intellect they have. But their fire’s obscured by base technology. And the notion that they move forwards and move. The guard and prison warder of mankind Is everyone of them watching the other And here’s the law which governs: ‘Please yourself and do whatever you want And try to live without harming each other. There is no need for Kissenger or Bush To shepherd this cattle, it motivates itself.’ That evil eye sees how stupid we have been. Now I was roused by Isis while I lay; She pulled me up and fed me: ‘Stupid man, You have to hear the rest about this nation, For which the earth is longing through those men Who bow their heads before manipulation. Now stand, and hear, I know that you can learn.’ She urged me, and then came the information.  

Canto 50

The door was opened, the great eye began: ‘Ah, in the presence of our pagan god Which I will bring you now, you will not run; But, if by chance a glimpse of what is dead Can slide between the curtains of you mind You will appreciate and savour it. While bringing world enslavement to their kind, The Globe’s elite are also engineering The means to introduce the endless friend, The total other: alien, dead, appearing To no-one yet, except the greediest ones, The most malicious, or those like you, nearing Their own death without recourse or a chance Of living on to give a sweet narration. Let me pull down your keen mental resistance, And insert in your dull imagination This being from another time and place Beyond the shutters of your third dimension.’  

Canto 51

‘From distances across infinite space Which your technology accounts too great, A billion, billion years ago, a race Defeated time, and overcame the state In which life differs from what’s after life. As Buddhists in Tibet have learned of late, It’s not impossible to recall stuff Which happened prior to birth and to recall What will await you when you’ve had enough And buy your ticket off this watery ball. Coincident with your brief history And the ten billion years of cosmic jail In which you find yourselves, inventory Of other universes runs amok All governed by some grand apriori Who takes no notice of most of his stock. These aliens, like this one with you, don’t die. Not naturally or by a body’s wreck. They resurrect, ascend into the sky, Their souls undying and born of a virgin. To you they’re gods, and their biography Would be the story of a type emerging To higher consciousness; and yet such brains Which, like the entire cosmos, are enlarging, Lose all respect for feeling which restrains: Continuously tampering with doom, Imperial and cynical by turns, And insolent and cruel all the time, While innocently so, they just destroy World after world when that world’s time has come.’  

Canto 52

‘Because degeneration is their joy. Your race and earth are the plaything of such, Whether they came by chance or by the ploy Of some magician working overmuch At alchemy and conjuring with blood; Whether some madman begged them to approach While working with a butcher’s knife for God. Just as, when all is done, the love between A man and woman’s greatest in the mood Of carnal intercourse, with clothes for screen Torn off to lie together day or night Together mixed like an eclipse of the sun, Just so these creatures, lizard like and bright, Find highest purpose exercising force Learnt from the universe’s wasteful might. How could this little band of visitors Not seek to claim a royal throne over humans? And, with plenty of time, watch men rehearse A total world obedience immense, And lasting till at last they intervene?’ Now my attendant leader closed this trance; She shut the door. ‘Why can’t I, or some men, Enter these other worlds, and so not die? The road is open to this alien. There must be some way for us to be free, Avoid this fate?’ I said with opened eyes. My lady smiled and pointed out to me That she herself had come from distant skies; And men like me played our part in the world As finite brains outside great destinies.  

Canto 53

‘We are already here; brutal and cold, Far more illusive, more superior Than you can grasp,’ she said and then she smiled. ‘I’ve no reserve in telling you some more. We ETs have our faults and envy you: We long ago lost touch with Being’s law, The eternal God you humans channel through: Those silent moods of wonder, intuition, Attunement to time, seriousness, the true Sense of our fault, love, the eternal mission. We cannot have this. With a mild dementia We barely can recall there was a fission Between us and existence. Our adventure Is real and there is plenteous evidence You’ll see such evidence of how we’ll tear And burn up human sympathy to smoke. We have whole factories of testing sites Where human babes are hatched so that the snake Can rule them effortlessly; we have rites Which feed into the minds of men a song Which drives them mad until their simple wits Turn to us, begging to be freed from being. We eugenetically enhance their frame To form a man who right from wrong Cannot distinguish, dead and mindless, tame.’ ‘Oh, lady,’ I began, ‘End this prelude I’ll see the actuality in time. But let me know if in your mind you brood On these phenomena as something bad Even though we are not of a common blood?’ I asked, but let this line end the ballad.

Canto 54

I tell you have I met a higher light; It was a god with legs and arms like one Born on a Christmas day. Now it was night Dreams have come to me since my life began, They drop upon my mind raising night terrors; I wake to plead for daylight and the sun. Just so I woke then, peeling back the covers Of an accustomed bed suffused with heat. The electric light is on, dispels the errors Of the accustomed horrible dream state. How real the dream had been, and such relief To have escaped it. I was going to write. I took a pen and wrote it out in brief: The whole adventure on some paper scraps. Outside the window hung that silvery wife Of every poet, fake and dead, perhaps: The moon with borrowed light and frozen face. The night was quiet; I took easy steps Toward the window, but, beyond the glass, I saw with something far, far worse than dread Check black and white tiles all around the house. The house was ersatz, oozing the absurd. Had I been dreaming, or was this the dream? I looked with horror at the quiet bed Where I had lain, and at the walls which seem To be so real. And all the while the moon Burns on and paces through the insomniac gloom.  

Canto 55

An unreal thing, designed for this same scene. Now, as I looked from out the window sill I saw one coming over that check stone. The ground she walked on like that of a hall Made for a chapel hall, all black and white Alternating. She looked at me the while From down below, to where I was, and yet Kept walking to my solitary house. Now at the door she pauses for a bit. You know how when a man or woman cries And tears spill down the cheeks, their body shakes, So I was trembling then; my frame just froze While all my muscles spasmed. Silence speaks From out of void to bring forth such a being, For inside void are hiding such harsh freaks: It was my guide down there. She smells the tang Of fear which drips from me in sweat; her mouth - A lizard beak more like - reveals a tongue Which moves across the lip: the end of drought She tastes when she has made me fear like this. She smiles and turns the door knob while we both Looked from our eyes into the eyes which close Upon another world, a new dimension. Now through my door she mounts the direct stairs.  

Canto 56

‘Why so afraid? Did I forget to mention That we have means of shaping a whole world? It is a way of managing perception. We toyed with brains, pulled them, tortured, unfurled The whole mechanics.’ That is how she spoke. ‘This isn’t real?’ I said, ‘How have I ruled Over the earth unless I made a fake And unreal entire world in which you live?’ She paused, and looked upon the scattered book Of leaves I had been working on: ‘That’s brave! To make a record of our recent journey. Already starting, Platonist, you love The idle, secret studies. It is funny You never did break through to the beyond. The other side lay there in the uncanny, The hints of yet another greater land Which wanted an explorer and a pen To write it out.’ ‘I cannot understand,’ I said, ‘How I could never speak to men Of my intent, an endless liberty I had in mind. It was the superman Or some such thing. I had no sympathy And kept it to myself – a fault I know And it was evil, for the deep egoity Was always working for the devil, for you.’ She smiled to see the scales fall from my eyes.

Canto 57

You might appreciate how I was feeling By how excessive and daring I became, For in a tight spot we heed any calling That might avert our suffering or shame. But my desire to tell you might not work Because my narrative might never seem To be a true account. Still let this fork Of road turned from life of the standard kind Light up your soul for liberation’s sake. ‘This room we stand in is fed to your mind By radio waves and other frequencies Which build what you perceive like some dark hand Which massages your brain. For centuries We have continued to obstruct the race Of people by eugenics, illnesses, And foods which ruin human consciousness,’ My lady thus. In artificial light Reflected from the moon, her alien face Was bright again, reformed into the sight You see when looking at a lovely visage. A human frame encased in mellow blood And lovely nervous skin. She smiled her message: ‘I would not scare you so much by revealing The deep, O, deep conspiracy. Such rage Would rise in you, and, overcome by feeling, You’d lose your mind, perhaps. We must endure Until the climax of which I’ve been telling.’  

Canto 58

‘What do you mean that reality is not pure? Do you mean that it is stimulated by Some sort of laser beamed into the core Of human minds like mine?’ I, in reply, Addressed these words to her. ‘Yes, as I said, And we cut up your brain, cut out the eye Which could have seen us coming, worked us out, And easily evaded this enslavement. So few on earth can see beyond all that Which is on offer with a shape or scent.’ She said, then moved, and said: ‘I am on offer,’ And put her arms out, arms like armament Of a mind-splitting assault of desire, And need of comfort, enjoining both together And urged on me. So, meekly from a fear Of never knowing what an alien other Can feel like, and because I wanted love, I kissed this fake and high celestial mother. And I confess that holding this white dove Was sweet, and crossed the boundaries of right; It pushed me into evil. As above, However, this impossible delight In sexual contracts with a starry being With an inscrutable and cruel spite Against our race in general was a thing I did submit to, rushed into, from fear. The mouth was warm, the breast was hard, the tang Of some weird perfume was inside the hair Which made me hold her, but more than all this I knew that it was wrong. That was the allure.

Canto 59

So all reserves and guilt were in that kiss; I kissed her and my hands wandered around With eyes closed in a dark black free cold bliss. She entered into that great empty ground, Or void of the impossible and endless, As I did then, I know it. Understand – That enemy or lover, all of them regardless Spring from the same obscure and mighty hole. She savoured it and in the urgent mindless World renunciation which is full Of sexual longing where I went with her I saw her change her shape. I cannot tell But try to do so, just how, without care It made no difference to me. Did I dream? Such acts consume the memory with their fire. I lay awake inside a bed, welcome, Thereafter thinking of this awful wrong. This primal joining had cracked like a seam In rock, letting some light in. ‘In a song You’ll tell of this adventure, won’t you, Jason?’ She said, and I, ‘When I am back among The normal things of life, this little lesson You taught me will be written down, for sure.’ My promise was absurd for who would listen Or read my texts? I wrote for my own pleasure And sought only the infinite and the unreal. Yet, I could set that truth out in a measure; Whether it would be put in shops as well I wasn’t sure. By the darkness of the room We lay together in the pit of hell.  

Canto 60

Two things which loved obscenely in a tomb Beneath an Earth forged to make fun of us, A subterranean place of human time. ‘Where am I?’ I enquired ‘What is this place?’ ‘It is that place we came to yesterday, The Abbey underground. Couldn’t you guess Or else remember? Listen when I say That when you thought that you were at your house It was a mere illusion. Believe me. But we’ll be leaving soon, the two of us. And you can see why, ever and anon, You failed to find Jehovah’s universe, The superlunary beyond the moon. The ideal is high and requires intellect; But man is low and he will never learn’

Canto 61

We two left that grim place, and even then It was still being built, a whole new wing. I saw a thousand working. ‘Who’re those men, And what’s their point in coming here to hang White brick on brick?’ I pointed to the edge Where things that looked like people sweat to bring Huge stones to the cathedral wall. In charge Of them were several half caste gods whose rags Of finery gleamed over insubstantial flesh. ‘They’re people, mostly engineered from eggs. We feed them, make them eat, and then they work. They need not, but it does as well as drugs To enslave them. We designed a race way back In time, to merely be, to just exist, Only to fear, to obey, to fear attack. That fear is glorious, satisfying, just; Even you can feel it near them? and it goes Straight through the earth’s crust, too, like some great mast Broadcasting electric and magnetic rays Around the atmosphere; their pains and griefs Inseminate the brains and conscious flows Of free men who then turn into true slaves.’ She led me on, so that we could just plummet Down further, from the centre of these caves.

Canto 62

There was a massive pyramid whose summit Could just be seen, but miles beyond the rubble. And everywhere these people, at the limit Of being people. The heat was terrible, And as we walked I saw them sweat and stink, And so they drank, but it was horrible To see their gentle masters give them drink: A toxic fluid of salt, virus and metals Which take away, she said, the power to think, Inhibiting love. And for their victuals A meat from animals without nutrition Of any kind, so that for any battles The eater was not ready. In my passion I stopped my lady, pulling on the hand Which was in hers, and called out without caution To one of these enslaved things lacking mind: ‘Are you aware that there’s a higher fate Above this one? why don’t you make a stand And fight them, or refuse to work? This state Is not worth living in. Have you a mind?’ The man I spoke to looked at me with hate Because I stopped his working; like the wind A giant thing with tail and wings flew down And pushed him down and then on me it turned.

Canto 63

‘What is this vermin doing here, you, clown, I’ll tear his heart out!’ ‘Higher plans Have brought him here, he is not a concern Of yours,’ my lady told him. Then, by signs The man who had been floored told me his tale For looking down I saw him feel dim pains Within his wrists and in his head as well, As if some signal there had been input. ‘They have a small computer in that ball Which also has a brain in it,’ she said, And took me from the little crowd which formed. ‘It’s not cognition which has been taken out But the gentle, higher faculties which charmed Man out of darkness to the higher life. I’ve told you, humans are a gift. Unharmed They’ve direct access to the higher love, And talk with Christ is easy. But damaged now And ruined, chemically cut in half They’re just as conscious as a child of two. And up above we cut out the potential Of children when they’re born, to make them slow, And meek, and dull for living. With the financial We can control the older ones, because We had them from their birth. So influential Is school in making slaves for our cause.’ I could not hold my tears back. It’s a shame To tell you, reader, to think that my years Were spent hunched over benches for the acclaim I wanted amongst teachers; but much more I’d really thought that how things are at home - The schools, the government, army, and the law Were all legitimate, when every day In fact debased me with a fatal flaw. We went. I don’t know where. And in this way Accepting of the state of things, the evil, I had just acquiesced. When we betray Our fellows, we’re confused, bad, and feel evil, Become indifferent, seek integrity. We harden, hate, fall to a lower level.

Canto 64

Alone and in the night without excuses, I recognised that other people are, And that I cared for them. How had the masses Become so pointless? I knew a liar, An evil despot ruled the common day. His name was Brown, Obama, Bush, or Blair And I was just like him. Now the motorway Took us past simple buildings. Needing sleep I saw the pyramid quite near us now, it lay Upon the skyline and upon its slope I seemed to see those Grecian gods reclining Around the summit, capless at its top; Indecent sexual forms which keep us whining About the shortness of our mortal day, They’re real: fires fuelled by stupid heads, still burning. And all the while the word ‘Eternity’ Is in my ears. ‘Is this life? We have sunk So desperately low, because we say To one another that the normal junk Of our little lives and stunted expectation Was what we came to earth to be and think. Is that right?’ I to her; and with hesitation She paused and then replied to solve my puzzle: ‘Pray to God, and find your way be meditation.’ She ended as we came toward the steps Of the great pyramid, and to the entrance To the lower level, where this part stops.

Canto 65

‘This great triangle with its basal square Is in the lowest floor the replica Of concentration camps we’ve built back there Where you are from; soon people in the wire Will be confined for speaking of God and Christ.’ She said, and there in glass, a colossal door Into the deeper hell, as I attest. In anger I threw back at her this question: ‘But what’s the point of this? Why can’t we just Be mindful of each other. What suggestion Was there that humans would not welcome you?’ ‘This problem shows your faulty estimation Of what is going on here. You were once A people with a Father. My own tribe Are small in number, renegades by chance Alighted here on earth with all the scope And patience to make this our paradise. It’s all about control. Control to shape Your own existence to our true heart’s choice. In some world far from here angel feels love And would enjoy it rescuing your race. But not us. Finally, and as if from above We have been so successful turning people Into psychotics. Who would want to save A race which out of cowardice can topple Itself to a hell on earth, gladly give up Its freedoms and ideals?’ Eating the apple, As written in the Bible, tells of the drop Into a world of conflict with the gods; And those gods, walking, lawful gods, will stop At nothing to reclaim men as their goods. ‘I won’t give in,’ I said, ‘I’d rather die.’ ‘Tell me about this freedom, how it hurts To know the trick that has been played on you.’ She asked me this with curiosity. ‘Okay, since it can’t hurt to let you know.’  

Canto 66

‘My freedom means that there’s a secrecy Within my heart which not one word can show. Since we have walked, the word ‘eternity’ Has been inside my ear,’ I said as, now We mounted up the steps which led inside ‘I intimate the eternal here below. Perhaps you want to scare me? If I died In this state you would have a victory Because I’m weak, and shocked, and terrified? But there is something like an ecstasy Always there, within, outside the universe. I look inside, from the illusory Which lies down here. I give up on the curse Of wrong I’ve done, or I’m yet to perpetrate. I beg my Father for forgiveness. Inside I’m just a glass, a hollow state Of freedom. I hear His voice. There’s nothing there! It’s freedom! From inside the void Springs all that is,’ I said. So she laid bare Her own suspicions, ‘Reading books that tell Methods of meditation? I’m aware Of such a spurious freedom.’ ‘I don’t fall For that denial. I’m a machine, a thing Created by you gods: you’ve told me all. But the heart of me and consciousness can spring From nothing and it opens onto Being. Heidegger taught me that.’ I cease. She laughs, ‘I cannot cure a mad disease.’ But this exchange was cut short when the hall We entered came unto a modest rise Within the marble tiling, then a fall Into a gentle walkway going under Now going down. We left that glassy mall Walking, accompanied by a peal of thunder.  

Canto 67

When I type up what I witnessed down there, ‘Burn all your books!’ my conscience says to me. Before the turning of the bottom stair The pair of us had made our weary way To face a door formed by a flaming sword Which looks all ways, prohibiting entry Upwards or downwards. And so, let my word Come under guidance of the sacred muses, Moon goddess, triple snake witch, ninefold crowd. Those writers of the past, they too knew Isis, Now Keats would sell his soul for her assistance And Graves was her self-conscious Dionysus. How I, who hitherto hated existence, Or feared it so that I could not write poems, Why should I see close up what from a distance They saw myopically in their dreams? You know the tale about how I got in Down at the well spring of the Pierian streams, But now let all be clear and nothing hidden. Moving alone that time through ice and fire My ego self was fragmentary, fading, Just as the white moon fades in blue sky’s hour. I saw what followed with sensual perception As taking place somewhere near the earth’s core.  

Canto 68

But also knew it was the intersection Which plugs into the deepest soul of us. My lady took us into the reception Of what I knew to be a giant, glorious And soon dispiriting hospital complex. Down there you follow endless corridors Flooded with neon light. At first, by reflex After the sliding doors had closed behind I peered incautiously behind the Perspex Which right and left showed nurses of a kind. They minded paperwork, and pharmacies, Preparing food, and patients: ‘In the end You bring me here’, I said, ‘And I suppose Those working in the higher circles have Some rest, some reparation for their loss? I fear to ask, but here at least, is love And care for human nature?’ First she smiled And then began my muse: ‘While we two move Toward the secrets usually unveiled To those not born yet, or whose life’s complete, Walk slowly and see how the wards are filled.’ A map she pointed to hung like a sheet And showed that we were in Maternity. A whole wing with its thousand rooms dead bright. ‘Here see the depth of human vanity: While we grow things, make women birth such things As you could not dream in eternity.’  

Canto 69

Please see the extreme limits in these rings Of research labs succeeded by more labs.’ I could be driven mad singing these songs But I continue. So we led our steps Into a cubicle where, like a bird, A feathered woman was, sans mouth or lips, But with a beak which grew out, cold and hard Where mouth and nose are for the sake of breathing. Apparently quite conscious how absurd A human eye and mind is in such clothing, This dove-shaped female of a giant size Looked on her own self, screeching out with loathing. There was an egg beneath the avian legs But more than this, more horrible than this, My lady told me: ‘See that human face It knows that it is here to serve for us, Breeding such progeny as hatches out. She also knows, this dove of the abyss, What animal enjoyed her. Don’t forget, My own race seeks to join our DNA With that of yours. Now this unhappy bird Was, as by winds, inseminated by A human lizard similarly spoiled. In ancient Greece they said this sexual tie Had made the Earth from Chaos.’ So she told A riddling tale which soon I understood.

Canto 70

‘How could you?’ I enquired of my mistress; And she: ‘By many centuries of action Upon the human faith, we make this mess, A thing with human mind, power of reflection, And yet with all the DNA tuned in To bird vibrations. See the next concoction In this room, next to it: arachnid children Climb up the walls with spider deficit Attention syndrome…’ But I butted in: ‘I don’t mean how you did this horrid shit! O no!’ I whispered, mostly to myself. ‘We’ve got some humans who have forms of cat With tails, like snakes, and wings, and, like an elf The faces of a woman. And long since These things were on the earth, and offered half Their consciousness to the angelic heavens And half to blind technology of men. The chimera straddles the prison fence.’  

Canto 71

But I forbade her so to carry on, Either to tell me, or to show the rooms Where these unspeakable histories of man Were more than myths. But many sickly dreams Are realised in corridors down there. I saw an observation hall where teams Of dead men are who rot, yet are aware Because revived by some technical music Played out of speakers. Then, door after door, Rooms full of men bred to be so aphasic They had been born without a human head, But carried in their hands prosthetic masks And, locked into themselves saw the infinite. Most of these entities were chained or herded By human seeming nurses: ‘These don’t hurt The subjects,’ said my leader: ‘They’re persuaded That they are doing good here. But my kind Can’t shepherd these vile things; they can be murdered Too easily and often. Have a mind To speak to them, see how they justify Their Hippocratic office.’ So I turned To one nurse spooning medicine nearby. ‘What are you doing here?’ I touched her arm, She wore a nurse’s dress: ‘Officially I’m not here. This is kept a secret from The media and all that; my husband thinks I’m overseas in Africa.’ ‘How come?’ I said, and tried, with subtle signs and winks To elicit from her some complicity: ‘Your work is secret? Don’t you know it stinks?’ She looked appalled: ‘It’s highest charity To help these people who are born this way It’s not their fault!’ ‘And don’t you think,’ said I, That this is not quite right, I mean to say, That people here are ruined, bred for torment..’ ‘We don’t believe there’s a conspiracy,’  

Canto 72

She said, suspicious of me for a moment, Then smiled and went back to her occupation. My lady looked at me and made no comment. The nurse could not decipher, had no notion Of who my lady was. I shook my head To think of it. With childhood vaccination, With poison slipped in subtly with the good, Programmes for infant internets, Dbases Containing all the private personhood Of living people, made to wreck the faces Of living humans with an alien warfare - Such willing doctors have contained the masses. We moved on further, to inspect the welfare Of mental patients. Miles and miles of them These caged and crippled beings you could never Look at yourself and not fear to become. I met men who can see the endless chain Of worlds, drenched in the most horrific foam Of visions which men’s minds should not contain; They rave and rave, speak tongues, beg and in time (A concept foreign to them) start again. And more corpses within a living tomb But these psychotics, born lobotomised, They see and feel just a material loam. Then mad evasive personalities Who hate existence, torturing themselves With hopes of lotteries, lives idealised. We know their suffering daily. ‘What absolves You from the guilt of these bleak devagations? What reason do you have to be such wolves?’ ‘These things are science, just investigations, Developed from mere curiosity. I don’t need reasons, no deep explanations.’  

Canto 73

‘You’re tired, and we will rest,’ she said to me. Meekly, I nodded, ‘These rooms here are called The bloody rooms, for here is puberty Brought on in girls of five and six years old. This has an application in the world, For we are stealing childhood from the child Transmissions from the lunar satellite - Increased suggestions from the pale full moon - Age bodies quickly. This room here is what Could be called Proteus’ lab, for here a man Has been infused with his egoity Into a bath of water. There’s no plan: It’s just research! This cage here that you see Contains a man whose eyes are facing round, Right in towards his cranial cavity. We do not kill these people; they redound In lovely fear, delicious dread, dementia Of sweet sadistic uncorrected mind. The vapour of despair is our ambrosia, It is the lovely fluid blood of life. Like intestinal worms causing displeasure We scrape your arse, you scratch, and we survive.’ And so, now lost for words, I stumbled on. ‘Let’s sleep now,’ so she said, my alien wife.

Canto 74

‘The masterpiece’ ‘Inside my heart you’ll find the mystic rose The petals come apart there if you tear; You throw them on the floor, tearing them loose. Just try it, lady, cut me to the core. And then, I know it, I will know a man Where I was born who still remains secure After the ruin,’ I whispered. From my chin I wiped the spittle, then I wiped my eyes. The lady kept on walking on and down A corridor whose standard masonries Grew slowly darker, more covered in grime Like a London tube station. The Mysteries Might have been held in that cave where we came. The walls were rock but smooth as if with hands They had been touched. At times we had to climb Downwards. ‘I heard your sweet and cruel demands,’ She said when taking up a torch for light, And holding it on high to see the lands Before us, low, descending, turning, tight, So narrow, dark, and lacking anything. ‘I want to know what humans are,’ I said, ‘And if we are alone.’ The echoing Words were left there, so I added, disturbed: ‘Do you know why we’re here? That sort of thing So that, before I am destroyed and robbed Of all existence, I might know,’ I said. She kept on while the torch blazed, unperturbed, Her white sidereal body went ahead. To keep on going we were forced to stoop And finally the cavern was so bad She laid the torch down and we had to stop. ‘You want to know what? Our master plan?’ ‘Yes, all of that, but tell it from the top.’  

Canto 75

‘I mean, tell me the origins of men I want to know the answer to this riddle.’ ‘A masterpiece it would be, written down, Such wisdom. In the winter, in the middle Of night a frost begins to bite the ground And takes on the aggression of a battle To dig itself in; morning comes around And melts it, so my words will sink within And cut you, but will not incite your hand To write; will make brief imprint on your brain. The universe, the cosmos, has more tiers And deep full old dimensions than a man Can understand. A billion years Is just the time it takes to blink an eye To the almighty Truth. As volunteers The souls of human beings came to see The light. The earth was made for them to live As humans: to find truth, pure love and beauty; God, so excellent He exceeds belief, Asked human minds to be and become flesh, To struggle, to forget themselves, yet prove That in the end through yearning, through the ash Of lives surviving in the fire of time, They could at length return to love afresh. But the fire of mind, in spite of God, seeks crime. People forget, they can’t remember why They’re here on earth, and that is why we come: To take and use that fire.’ ‘I’m tired now,’ I said, and lay, eyes closed, and feeling cold: ‘Is this the place that you will make me die? I’m really tired. I wanted to be told This story to remind remembrance So clear now, it makes sense.’ So in the hold Of an hallucinatory dead trance, I seemed to see her smiling while she lay Across from me in that dark decadence Of tunnel which had ended up this way. In memory of the truth, and without future.

Canto 76

I could not sleep since little threads of silk Dropped down from overhead; a spurt of urine Has such a fluid moving formless arc. The sound of buzzing, tinnitus or whirring Affects my ears, and now the thread of light Grows more intense and full. I take my bearing From where I lie and see it shoot upright Going through the tunnel roof for miles and miles. ‘My lady, does my mind hallucinate, Or does a sort of laser break the walls And stroke my head?’ ‘So sick and cold as this, So hungry, thirsty, emptied of the pills That people must ingest all day these days, Your psyche is reverting to old cast: You’re seeing like a beast sees. Frequencies Are tuning in to you as to a mast. Love, which you’re here for, ancient winding fate, Is really needed now,’ she said and passed A hand across my cheek, affectionate. ‘Throughout what passes now, don’t be afraid; Try not to fear, my love.’ ‘Don’t call me that,’ I said, ‘You do not understand that word.’ ‘You’ll either die down here and fail in life, Or put your hand out and climb up that thread.’  

Canto 77

A daring lack of seriousness is enough To make men jump or climb into the deep; A world, in which a beam of heavenly stuff, A ladder shooting from a sailing ship Crewed by an alien race, can pierce the cave Which had become my grave, is without hope. You have no joy or hope, nor want to save Your personality, your ‘I’, or body When all that’s left is to choose how to leave. But there was worse to come. But do not pity This person who narrates: I laid aside All sense of being someone, anybody. ‘Let’s go then’, I said, and just like a shade I let the light thread draw me through the rock; My flesh was insubstantial, and my blood Flooding through stone by some arcane magic. We climbed hand over hand, yet all at once The beam had rendered useless any work Since it had swallowed me, and started thence, To drag my dim awareness through the strata Of rock, which I had travelled through days since. My mind was panicking and full of chatter; I couldn’t see my legs or arms or head, But obviously they, being made of matter, Had been transformed, or they had fallen aside. I cogitate bizarrely in this rapture: Of living on: what chance that I am dead?  

Canto 78

Once those things happened to me in the future Which would occur to me. What were they though? All I could think of clearly was a torture Inflicted on my mind shot through and through With madness, thoughts which were like fierce invasions. What if they turned me into something new By processes of surgery and visions So terrible they split my mind in bits? Perhaps my fears and those sharp apparitions Were worse than what came next. From out the midst Of earth the light evacuated us. It was a dark air, sky of winter nights And there was frost upon the brittle grass; But still we headed up. ‘I see no lights Nor any habitation. Where is this?’ I said as, far below, the Earth departs Assuming spherical shape within the night. As we ascended, the United States Revealed itself entire from our height. I should have passed out, but, O greatest fear, My consciousness was lucid, so alright, That what would come thereafter would be clear And placed in memory. Through zone on zone Of clouds of gas our little bodies were Being dragged, and on then, to the circling moon, And always tunnelling within that shaft. Sometimes in front and sometimes further on My sole friend came as well. You would have laughed To see, beyond the dead, chalk satellite An orbiting and circular space craft, To which my path was wending, true and straight. The ship grows bigger as we near, the door Of which is opened, so we go inside.  

Canto 79

Outside, the ship was small and circular; Inside was large, and complex. Straight away Three elf things lay me down upon the floor. Large heads, small chins, big hands, the colour grey, With eyes which narrowed at the upturned corner; They spoke to me, but telepathically. I struggled, fought, and wept, but in a manner That nothing moved. Completely paralysed. Now I was put upon a surgeon’s gurney. You know a fair ground, how it has some rides Which spin around upright and in the air, The sort of things children have fantasised; And flashing coloured lights are everywhere On such attractions: horse rides, ferris wheels? You know, as well, the circus kind of Fair Where clowns in makeup fall, take to their heels To chase each other in fantastic shapes, And fast or slow, beneath perpetual smiles, They do outlandish things and then take steps To communicate with you but wordlessly. Just so this place was, or just seemed, perhaps. For there were beings there who noticed me, But then ignored me. Their community Of alien scholarly beings, obviously Was far beyond what I knew. Charity Cannot bring me to allow them any sort Of stable mind or personality.  

Canto 80

The way they treated me was without art Their fascinations were sublimely pure: Could they learn from me, make me die or hurt Or could they teach me? I felt good and sure That such a race did not feel certain things Like friendship, loyalty, forgiveness, care, But had they chosen that? My mistress rings A signal bell which runs throughout the ship, A melody vibrating through me brings Another different sort of alien up, A surgeon and an officer enmixed, For all the clowns would follow him like sheep. I well remember all that happened next. The thing was robed in fire from head to foot And yet was white under the fire. He fixed A crocodile’s small eye upon me that Peered from the elongated reptile face Of one half-man and half-reptile to boot. I cannot write or type, or draw or trace The details for you, reader, my hands shake But let these indications, please, suffice. By using various needles, pliers, and the like My heart was pierced and shut down, then removed; My head was opened and my brain was took And shown to me, and cut up, rudely knifed. The surgeon put it next to me; the while He stuffed in something else, and then he shoved The real thing back in, damaged, with a smile. ‘This will improve you,’ he was saying then. Now I was still awake, and conscious still. ‘I’ll get through this, I’ll get through,’ over again, And again I said, and ‘God, and the good,’ and ‘Love’ And he: ‘Love? Way out here, what can this mean? Does such a concept mean much here above?’ ‘Yes’, I said ‘Love, intellectually.’ You see, I had to have it, to believe. They started up my heart electrically.

Canto 81

But while this happened, while thus mutilated, And faced with the indifference of scorn From beings who know much more how we are fated To be betrayed by life once being born, I was assured by something infinite; I had a confidence about the turn That it is right make to face toward God; That every thing, even in this misery Makes intellectual love the guide of fate. And I would be redeemed. Derisory Acts of forces so superior Which even rewired my brain’s neuronery Still left my soul intact and absolute, for My trust in Him prevailed; and even then An easy and impossible good law Would only make me stronger. And I mean I felt a love for those who made the mistake Of hurting me, which ran and still outran Their random guilt. I felt the doctor shake With sympathy to feel the joy within. And furthermore, and above all, I look And see that this today, and then, this thin Veil over a nothing, our life in time Is all illusion, absolute, all one.  

Canto 82

It is too hard to tell, but just assume That you would have to sit and study well Upon a school boy’s seat; then you will come To see the truth if, studying this hell. And also study in your heart’s own book And read the words there, deep and masterful. I sat, awake; the therianthrope spoke: ‘It’s not that man is cattle that we eat. Nor is it pleasing just to make him work For entities like us who do not sweat And don’t reward him. It is less substantial. For, being aetherial, we must cultivate Aetherial meats beyond what is essential. I savour cruel pointless practices, Perverse sex acts which crush all your potential. The tears of children used in ritual sex, The dreams of cocaine users in fatigue, And just as good, the blood of a princess. The pain of worthy people is my drug. Her death is made to happen the moment When many hold their breath and, all in league, Can witness all the blood, hear the lament Of multitudes when she’s thrown in the abyss. We catch that soul.’ I wanted to comment But found speech hard; I threw my glance across To see my friend (I felt she was my friend); I knew that he was speaking of the loss Of that chaotic Princess who had met her end In Paris, when without past or faith she was undone. The Lizard said, ‘You theorist of the absurd; You gave up your ideas that she was slain By secret services and Royalty; You gave up, and correctly, since the truth is plain. That, her end beneath the flame of liberty, In Paris, meant that atheist rites were held Around the world to catch and watch her die. The stars and fates conspired to have her killed. O, there were human beings who made the plan, But they just helped. The powerful strings were pulled By faery knights and by the Faery Queene Who, as of old and as ever anew Remove the restraint, the virtue and confession From Christian hearts. Leaving behind The animal emotions which were seen In the princess, the newspapers, and the people And all the rest of it which flocked around The Torch of Liberty over that tunnel.

Canto 83

In that high atmosphere Above the earth, while my muse dreamed at leisure, I started hearing voices high and clear. They sang and overwhelmed me with their measure. The words were these: ‘Venite pur avanti’ From Mozart’s invitation to the pleasure Of food and love and all risk-taking’s plenty. I heard the singing, then I saw them sing And then those singers really upped the ante. Three woman things came to me in a ring. ‘Doomed man, insane and sorrowful condemned, Up here at night supported by a wing And by a prayer, now you are truly damned.’ They were three witches, or three types of maid An old crone, a young woman, and a kind Of mother. And yet when I turned my head Toward my guide who had been lying near I could not find her. Anxious, full of dread I tried to fight these women of the air. I reached my hand out to their rustling dresses And felt their arms, some eggs, some pubic hair. The three of them, these triple goddesses Enjoyed reminding me that I would die. Just die, doglike, to entertain the masses.  

Canto 84

‘You think you’ve fled the death we promised you? Back at the start of this?’ They said, ‘But wait, My lady said that. She is not here now. It was not you three.’ ‘Now he looks for God And thinks he cannot perish,’ said the horror, The oldest one; she pushed me to my seat. Then looking calmly at me as a mirror Image looks back at you: ‘You’ll buy your ticket Out of this world for good this time tomorrow. I was so terrified. I could not take it Without my friend nearby. I was alone I thought they’d kill me there, I would not make it Faced with these women and that foul old crone. But then I saw my mistress: one in three, And that the three-fold was my Lizard queen. The bed and lab dissolved transparently As soon as the white lady’s face bent down Across my face; and she burnt lambently.  

Canto 85

The colours, shapes and lines of things remain, But they responded to my mental pleasure; Suggestions of a stone became a stone, And then assumed new forms of architecture; From liquid spirals in a Celtic torque Snake eyes peer out in pretty, sensual rapture. ‘Where am I?’ I said, hearing the opaque Sound of my voice re-echo in the void, And resonate in time and come straight back. As memory before they became word I heard her voice console me: ‘It’s the plane From which my race emerges. Since your head Was emptied or refigured you have been Ecstatically raised up out of the flesh.’ Emerging from the darkness she came on: I see her only, hear a buzz and crash As horns appear around her dim forehead, And crackling fire burns in a yellow torch She carries. Unafraid, meanwhile, I said: ‘Have I experienced alien abduction, And is this how they can communicate?’  

Canto 86

‘They usually abduct for copulation; They take some milk or seed for royal ones. The pure souls of my sort need an oblation Of human stuff to nurture in us bones And other human trappings. But the half-breed - Half human and half alien - these are sons Of royal parents with a human bride.’ ‘So from this place, this nowhere out of matter The reptiles grow a body?’ ‘Then they slide Into the sockets of the scum and litter Of Earth existence; thus they procreate, And grow their children on the bread and butter Of normal Earth lives: ministers of state, Industrialists, financiers, generals, Celebrities and artists spring from out Of these half human bloodlines. Criminals For the most part. And now look at that ball.’ Below us or above while the earth spirals Its way through space, both empty and most full, From where I was I saw all of its time In such a way that time was space until All time was present in a spatial frame. Just as lives happen in biographies, And all the person’s life is at one time Within the pages; or, when we make movies And play them back or forth, now fast now slow, Just so, time past and present are in phase When from this other plane you see time flow. I saw it with my eyes how years, decades, Expand and flourish in the ideal Now.  

Canto 87

‘Because we see existence from these shades Beyond the world of your sight, you are ours. But note this well: no matter that as gods My royal line can dominate, coerce, And generally rule in power and glory. If there is not a further base commerce, Then me and mine must leave Earth in a hurry. You see, this is not home, this empty space. Where you and I are now is temporary: It is an intermediate secret place Between two worlds, your one on the one hand, And ours somewhere beyond. This interspace Is only home to us, you understand, Because there is a special food we take And eat, which gives to us a solid ground. If ever people ceased to kill and fuck, If they could stop the secular and the rape Of innocents, we’re finished.’ Thus she spoke. Apparently, when aliens first came up From their own level, they were drawn to earth And held outside it, hovering and deep. They sucked in breaths of outrage, while calm faith And right thinking made their bodies go wrong. ‘This zone is not your plane of being - the Fourth?’ ‘No,’ she replied. ‘You’ll hear it from my tongue Where and what my true home is further on. But first the iron blood, the bitter tang Of what most pleases us in mortal man; This thing you first must see. Let us go home To Wales and England; you’ll see what I mean’.

Canto 88

But now our path had led Toward the old house where the two of us Had spent our first days. Inside was the bed. ‘We came because we hate the human race; Because a catastrophic ending looms That I’ll enjoy when with a crystal blade We cut your heart out. And the ending comes For all men, one way or another way.’ The bedroom was suffused with rich perfumes Above it was a white, low canopy, And white clean sheets were draped across the whole. There was a couch beside it and a spray Of flowers, and beside it on a stool Some fragrant ointments and a stringed guitar. And there we did all night the ritual Of marriage. It was a site of bitter war Of race and sex, beyond what’s good and evil; And after it I could no longer care If what she planned for me was wrong or moral. From henceforth I was her conspirator. She said, then, smiling: ‘We are going to travel The labyrinth when we step through the door Into the world around us. Humankind Is threatened by a kind of Minotaur.’  

Canto 89

‘And trapped inside that maze of paths that wind Interminably out and inside them. A path of reasons, and evasions, and A path of life ways people share, become A certain lonely life experience That has them trapped and which they call their home. It penetrates them, and it is a fence Restraining from without, and ruled by me. You know this now, know what omnipotence Rules humankind. You know they cannot see And don’t believe this alien animal Although deep deep inside the memory Of horror is aroused by a certain smell And certain sights, which bring to mind their plight: The smell of uric acid, beds paternal, Of bad tobacco, unaired rooms, and shite; These types of things offend their sense of ease, The fetid, dying, the empty space inside Which drives them onward, through the tangled maze. If men could see the walls at either side, The turns which lead and make them lost always, They’d dream of massacring the bull of Crete And getting out, retracing every step. But few men ever knew before they died.’  

Canto 90

‘But you, you poet, you will see, perhaps You’ll dream of Christianity’s Theseus, Helped by that Ariadne who took ship To Athens. They are not too conscious, These people, how the Lab’s imagination - How their whole world and mind is purely specious, A great communal dream alienation,’ She stopped, and nodded once toward the door, As if the rest of her dark sad narration Could be explained by going out through there. ‘My lady,’ I said, ‘Can it be the case, If I am right that two and two is four, That ETs, like you are, were with us always, And that our fate is to live in a cage, Then really, you are Satan?’ And she: ‘Yes!’ ‘But then,’ I said, ‘If you think that my age Deserves to know the truth then this implies That there is something better, some knowledge, That would make us free, divinities Who wait for me to know them, better gods, And something good you see with direct eyes?’  

Canto 91

‘There is a better God,’ she said, ‘At odds With me, but how to know him, there’s the rub. And thereto is perhaps where our path leads. We’ll see how Earth is ruled by men whose job It is to utterly avoid the truth of Earth Women and men who if they owned a pub Would not know how to get you drunk.’ We both Stepped from my lady’s house in north west England. She drove her car at speed into the north, Along the ugly roads. On either hand The ugly cars, and more cars, speeding full Through rain and dreary fields and with the sound Of propaganda radio. The pitiful Is made or born here really. We turn off Toward the airport and the Terminal For European flights, and then, enough We came eventually to Italy. ‘I love to be with you, I love this stuff.’

Canto 92

‘To trust you, as my guide, I love to be With you, and travel, move, see, be, exist, Regardless of what exists around me. God is somewhere above us in some mist Of history, and has abandoned us. God is no doubt somewhere but he is lost. You, on the other hand, a different case: You hold me, speak to me, and draw my heart, I burn for you, your words, your form, your eyes. How I would have enjoyed playing the part Of Moses whom you led from ancient Egypt Into the Sinai, giving Aaron his rod. If that was you back then I would have crept Into the sanctuary and enjoyed Your nearness while the Israelites worshipped Their golden calf. You are our Lord.’ I tried to tell her how my loneliness Was cured by her. She said only this word. ‘It is no wonder mankind is a mess. They love their captors.’ Her superior look Was lovely to me, but I will digress To tell how she appeared in the next book. For now, know that I recomposed my mind And she apologized, said she mistook My love for folly. Then beyond all bound I begged her to have pity on my head, And love me in return, and not to end My life in murder on a pyramid As it was going to be in future times As from the start it had been planned, she said. ‘Weeping and shameful man, what awful crimes Has love of me and sex already brought? You know this and yet out of your mouth comes This servile love of an infernal god. What else is sin that this, the human breast. For you to love me is like masturbation It is self love, it is more like incest. You’ll see the high Ideal and the true Light. I see it will take time, will be a test, For me and you.’ She said, and now in sight, I saw the dome and the expansive frame Of Rome’s St Peter’s, spread against the night.  

Canto 93

It was the time of day when it’s bed time, A man turns off his telly, and his spouse Goes locking doors and goes from room to room, Ensuring she’ll be safe locked in her house. Some priests led us inside the Vatican. They led us to a bed and our own space. The world is actually run by thieves And predators and gods. Now, dressed in grey The Pope was in his chamber. His white gloves Caressed a walking stick held in a way One holds a sword. He wore a black cravat And stamped his foot while, looking from on high Fortissimo pitched words came dancing out: ‘The world is run by gods who recognize Each other. They determine human fate. The human herd is just a sacrifice. You, Jason Powell, you love this, and by now You want to further Earthly paradise; Where each man finds his own fun and own law. Since Constantine the keys to life eternal Have been in hands God-guided, men who knew…’ But she said: ‘His church is the gate, the key Using the which we enter a freer air.’ I saw the man put on his robes and mitre; He walked to chapel and assumed his chair.  

Canto 94

‘The Church’s divine message, sweet and bitter, Of other worlds, God’s love, and painful duty, Schooled and created all that will endure in Western culture. The world as it is, as a global city, Was founded on the hill of Mount Cassino Where Bernard lit the lamp of divine beauty Which never will go out. But as you know That light of God is just enough for men And fishing for the moon in water, they see no Real things, the real is subterranean, And hidden from them. God of sacrifice, God of self-sacrifice, a human one, Who died and gave to us love without price: Him and his codes of conduct of the brain And of the body, that has been God’s face. Meanwhile the Truth, and also the alien reign, Were not disclosed.’ She spoke and led me out Toward the center of the Vatican.  

Canto 95

Now it was late and through the quiet street She marched me to a chapel that she had Where Michaelangelo drew Christ and God. Considering the things that she had said About both aliens and about the Truth I asked her things which rolled around my head: ‘Beside extra-terrestrials who beneath The ground and over us have all command, And beside humans, is there, on the Earth Some other thing which we don’t understand, Some power obscured from view, through history Obscured and hidden, some original ground?’ ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘And if you follow me You’ll learn about it all from other lips. For in the shelter and the cruelty Men have fought wildly to escape our traps Men dead now, or still living in your time Creating lights in a time of eclipse. A power so great and good that, when you come To it I can’t be with you. Influence It has not over me. This is my home.’  

Canto 96

She stopped and I could see, beyond a fence A grand high altar. There we went inside. Supper was served, and sparing no expense We ate well and were drunk. ‘If I decide,’ Now she began, ‘To tell you all the tale, Myself, you would not understand a word. It must be demonstrated. Scale from scale Will drop away and then your eyes will see. By Christian doctrine, what you see is real And God created it. Eternity, He also made that, but it can’t exist For mortals. The world is your prison, see? Your self’s your prison, too, the self that Christ Embodies and has proven to be perfect. All are in prison each an egoist. Everything about the human subject Was crafted and enframed through centuries Of Christian history, sublime and abject. The imprisoned subject and its mortal worries Gives to the next man his degraded ego, Arouses it in him, and so he carries An absolute absence of any sorrow. The most atrocious tortures of a friend, Cannot undo the selfhood in his marrow. Some men are selfish torturers, some kind, It’s all one; positive or negative. The Church, the Earth, it is all of one mind: An unconditional rampage to survive. A relict of their animal prehistory, An alien input, either/or. This drive Was called by Freud the Death Drive in his theory; It is the one immortal thing on Earth: The soul’s drive to live on. A mystery.’  

Canto 97

And for the Church, and to assert his worth, One will do anything, evil incredible, They’ll kill, they’ll die, they’ll forgo any mirth They love the ideal, the unconditional.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ I said, ‘Even love can make us bad. My feelings for you make an animal Of me, so I betray my race instead Of fighting you. You give me an erection When you should make me sick. And yet, you said There was this other force, other direction, Beyond the death drive, beyond what Shelley named The Triumph of Life.’ ‘I used that simple diction About that force but it is pre-condemned As meaningless.’ ‘So why don’t we make haste? Please take me now to these, the saints, the damned, Whoever they are who know, alive or ghost, I want to meet them and experience.’

Canto 98

O Muse of poetry, now be my bride. The life of dead men, the Mysteries of life, Sing Muse, how I broke to the other side. O you on Helicon who kidnap tender wife, And take her as a bride fit for a groom, Now wreath my temples with the laurel leaf And bring your flame hued veil, so, hither come On snow white foot, and then with ringing voice Join in the chorus, dance out beat and rhyme. For I will need your help and your advice As I tell how I once again was bound Unto the goddess, cruel, full of vice Who also told the truth, and round and round Wrapped me with love, as ivy entwines the tree, Roving here and there. Or else I’m blind And groping without sight for poetry. You who helped Milton to be milked of song, Invest me with words for my imagery.  

Canto 99

‘Sit here, my master will soon be along,’ My mistress said, and pointed to a chair, So I sat down. As she left, footsteps rang Upon the wood stained panels of the floor And echoed in the silence of the night. And, as I, fearful, wait, the corridor Reechoed once again to approaching feet. The thing which came in had two pairs of wings And was naked saving a crown upon its head. As it came near it cast light on the things Around it, burning with a darkening light. It was an angel from the angelic ranks, But something so intensely passionate, Like something loaded with significance, Which easily could crack and make me mad. ‘I’ve come to seal the bargain. That deep trance, That concentration that you learned with her, I want you to assume it.’ The entrance And exit to this room was much too far For me to reach; I really had to go. This creature made me scared, but I stayed there, Sat down, said nothing, neither: ‘Yes’ nor ‘No’. ‘To learn more, you must sign away your life. There are no stages of the road to do.’ He touched my forehead softly, soft enough To leave a number marked there. ‘Sign away…?’ ‘You’re to be murdered. An obsidian knife Will cut your heart out later on today, Remember that?’ And I recalled my guide Had told me I’d be treated royally For months before death on the pyramid. She told the truth. ‘Now concentrate your mind And slip into the meditative state.’ And so I did. My thoughts tried to contend With inner quiet, but they faded soon. I sat just breathing softly hours on end. But I was elsewhere, too, dancing a tune Played by some god creating a new world. For in the quiet absence ghosts moan, And voices, shapes arose, moving about And seeking my warmth. One picked up a knife; I felt their hands take me and lay me flat, And then with practiced gestures take my life. At which, I saw move backwards all my events They passed my vision, step by step, enough That I came at last to rest, in the Parish church With the images of saints and Christ before me And at last, I let myself hear my Father’s voice And I accepted that he spoke, and listened to him.

Canto 100

What is this dance that you and I alone Have danced so curiously, in such a measure That I’ve seen some of hell, and been undone So many times and seen the greatest pleasure Suffused with dreadful sights, all worse and worse? What has it meant?’ And she spoke at her leisure: ‘The jewelled heaven, the infinite palace Has ruined you and taken you away; This is the moon tree’s fruit. It’s what it is.’ She took a sharp breath and resumed the lay: Where does the soul go when it flees this life? Well, let me tell you this, when it is on its way It finds itself in a terrific strife With those invisibles who swarmed about it While it was living. Yes, they come to have What they believe is theirs. There is no wait. They grip you and will steal you for their own: Great crocodile men laughing at your fate. And things accustomed to being there throw down The dead man to spit on him, naked now. Unless, that is, he has learned how to frown On evil and to love. The one who so Has schooled himself to live without his will During his time in life is left to go. But where he goes I did not see so well Because it was not my time. I was breathing Again. The goddess broke the spirit’s spell And dragged me from the floor. My head was seething And blood was all around me near my hands, So much, and heavy, but her touch was soothing. She took the phone and called an ambulance. Within an hour I was hooked to a drip And being medicated. There this ends.

Design Jason Powell.