Eremitical

My friend is sad that I didn't go to a gig she recommended. But I don't go to gigs. I'm an eremite.

Sometimes this bothers me.

It bothers me what people might think. 

But not very much.

Being an eremite is about being able to resist public opinion.

I hate the world. I always have done. Even as a child I knew that the world was corrupt, hypocritical and stupid. I didn't want anything to do with it.

Which is why I became a priest.

And also why I left the priesthood

The other day Ailz had a dream about a gaunt old woman with long, long hair. "Did she look like this?" I asked.



"Yes, just like that," she said.  "How did you know?"

"Because it's one of my favourite works of art," I said.

And if she'd asked me why it was one of my favourite works of art I might have said, "Because that is what I look like on the inside."

Mary Of Egypt

                                    MARY OF EGYPT

 

                                    Tawny, parched, with matted hair,

                                    This is Mary the desert lion

                                    Stretching her bones across a rock.

 

                                    Our Mother Isis says to her

                                    "I too am Mary.  Christ was my son."

This was written 15 years ago. It sort of relates to the last post

More Self Disclosure

                                    SIS 
    

                                    When hair first grew between my thighs

                                    I'd tuck my genitals out of sight

                                    And take a look in the full-length mirror

                                    At Sis, my twin, her long hair wound up

                                    In shawl or turban.

 

                                                                    We'd not been apart

                                    Till then.

 

                                                     She left home shortly after

                                    For Egypt- where she lifts the dead

                                    Gently out of their holes in the earth

                                    And drinks expresso, molto expresso,

                                    And lives on her nerves.

 

                                                                             She takes less shit

                                    Than I will and her messages

                                    Are sharp and piney.

                                                                       

                                                                        I haven't affected

                                    The full-length mirror much since she split.

 

                                    But when I do I notice how

                                    The lines are softening.  However priapic

                                    Or cunnilingual we are, we tend

                                    To the ending of sex.  Old men and women:

                                    Dress 'em in jim-jams, mix 'em together,

                                    Guess which is which.

 

                                                                      But there's this as well;

                                    The older I get, the closer I get

                                    To her shamelessness, to her spit-cat wit.

                                    Polish the timber and shine up the handles-

                                    My scapegrace sister is coming home.

This also sort of relates to today's first post. I've posted it before, but that was back in the beginning before anyone- but anyone- was reading me.