Invocatio.
Dreams of a union jack, blazing red
White and blue above the dead.
An angel blows the trumpet, heaven falls
Down, down, down beneath the waves.
Are we not sailors in our hearts?
Men who claimed the earth, who plunged our swords
Into the throbbing breast of nature, claimed it ours?
And there amidst the stench and heat of jungles,
Mosquitos feasting the sweat of civilisation
And desert nights spent cold and cursing God
And ocean tombs, hissing bone and shattered foam,
Did we not forge ourselves a spirit worthy of song?
Were we not seed-bearing lovers to ancient India?
They hate us now, the world, the vicious spirits,
Vengeful of glory, lusting for payment,
“Give us back the nothingness we wrought!”
Have it then, you wicked souls, you miserable.
Weary spirits sleep, and sing the tune
For younger races – we have played our part
And watch the sweet future eagerly.
I.
Quoth Robin:
“Mighty Merlin, Father from the deep
I see you extend your hand, as the hour
Grows late and comes to grasp us in its time.
I reach my hand into the mist;
Into the shadow and smoke from whence dreams rise
In search of a blade to wield as days grow cold.
Lady Mother, dripping foam and icy locks
A countenance of horror and fascination
Watching me, and I her, indelibly.
Eyes beyond the pale, ever felt
And watchful, lest her chosen neglect his fate,
I strive to rise, a warrior to your breast –
But oh the fear, the fear of my own life
Crumples like grass before the wind!
A summons to battle! And will our brave return,
Or perish there as offerings to memory
And nothing more? When man lives he laughs.
The waves enclose me. A young woman lifts her skirts
And smiles, wishes that I take her gently –
And why not? I do. The faerie hordes snicker
And lash me for innocence and ineptitude.
Ancient England is groaning, rising slowly
And desperate for a champion, a sword, a line.
The wombs are groaning for blood and birth,
For herd stock, noble stock, fierce and marshaled
Beneath the drum and barrel and machine.
They yearn to be taken by warriors
And to love them as witches
Igniting flames in their nights of brutal passion.
The cults of goat and bull and moon set the fires
And drench the flesh in fluid, as we shriek
Beneath the stars, Awake! Awake! Awake!
Let the womb of the maiden come a thousand times,
Let the plough never yield, and may we grow as gods.
The faeries wrote three and seven on the walls
As they filled their cups with jewels. And from the word
An emerald ring appears, encrusted gold.
Virginal flesh awake, we greet you warmly,
The nectar that flows forth will light the world.
Give us the sacrament, and we invoke
The memories of pleasures more divine.
Witchcult, hound, and morning star,
Arise ye flames in me, who yet did perish
Beneath the yolk of fire, the pain of steel.
Our spirits shall be avenged, our pleasures vanquished!
For all who lived and died yet live in me.
Oh brothers, sisters, call me coven, call me kin,
I mourn for you, you sacrificed
At the altar of purification.
May we breathe, and give this story life.
II.
Seeking, ever seeking, why always seeking?
Little Robin climbs up in the morning
And lays down again when the day is done.
In between, war, violence, women –
He giggles like a child, and flies like a bird.
He strayed across the gallows at midday,
A little Muslim boy was hanging there,
All pale and choked and brewing for the worms.
He followed as they cut him down
And decked him for the earth,
Then Robin cried.
The crowds around were angry, men were burned
And white maidens were raped in the ash
That rained down from the sky. Robin sleeps
Fearfully at night, wrestling visions
Of a palace steeped in decay,
Of princes with muck for bones
And bird-princesses, bony and starved,
Crying “clack clack clack” through the wind.
“Blasphemy, blasphemy!” shrieks Robin
In cold sweats, alone in the dark.