Limitations on the Magus.
Hold it firmly between two pre-heated hands.
The heavy drapes, jet black, draw back
To reveal to the breathless Initiate
Five Glimpses of the Beloved.
Just as in,
said the Curator Emeritus,
from behind his hand
One Hundred Views of Hokkaido
Ten Glimpses of Eternity
And The Four Faces of the Moon
He was in dead earnest
as you didn't monkey about with Doctor Dee
nor his Opsidian Mirror.
It did for Horace Walpole who choked on Pie
And was struck with a palsey overwhelming
When taking the piss at a haut ton soiree.
He stood guard as I held and wished
For you to appear through the dull sharp glassy haze
- The Beloved over Heaven’s Bar does deep protrude
- The Beloved bends her downy neck to your trembling lobe
- The Beloved hints with flickering tongue the root of all Goodness
- The Beloved (bust length) gives you the Mesmeric sign of Fusion
- The Beloved sated with Fusion signals surrender with semaphores unknown
In the monstrous deep, a curtain advanced
Or did I just lurch closer?
The hem turned up
or did it just reflect my rigid thumb?
but no, at last - thumbs up -
the thick plank planes parted
on a dark wood’s inner mystery
which I took to be Heaven’s Bar.
A thin veiled vestige seemed to shimmer
Hand to mouth
He urged me on
“Tell me what you see
From extrusion comes protrusion..”
He claimed on the very nature of Obsidian.
“See her rear her tongue to lobe? Did you?”
“Not yet” , my hands were raw with damp heat .
Soot mists billow over Cloud Samples.
“Choice of three shades” oddly on the label
Dank tundra tinted red as hidden hands
Struggle with a briefly glimpsed genuflexion
or was a sign of confusion?
It was difficult to decide which.
Faint chants from well beneath
Elysian mantras that sounded more like hissy fits.
Yes yes, the sight of the beloved
By a single night light.
Off screen hands attempting a thunder roll
On the corrugated tin. upset a basket of walnuts.
Yes yes, Five Glimpses
- Moonfaced dude with slack jaw and monocle peers back;
- Hairless arm with yellow yoyo jammed;
- Hands jerk away as the dummy moustache inflates;
- Fighting clearly at stage left as pulleys slip;
- Nothing at all. With some more moustache.
“Did you see her, the Beloved?
Did she come through for you?”
“Did she just, over the Bar of Heaven, my wildest dreams”
“Fulfilled by semaphores unknown!”
And its myths sustained
the Obsidian Mirror slid back into its velvet bag
And the drawstrings closed on its cosmic secrets.
When the inhabitants of Mortlake burnt Dr.Dee’s Library
Perhaps they knew something we didn’t.
Fearing not superstition but mere disappointment.