(A Prose Poem)
I am so undone. For there flows within me such memories of personal deeds past as there becomes entwined the suffering that so blights us, we humans, century following century when passion exceeds our desire of control bringing thus the death of, and the pain inflicted upon, another. Life to life, and death to death.
I am so undone by her smile as she so supinely lays in almost sleep beside me and her naked body hid no shred of shame so that there were tears burgeoning as I in that darkful night of silence moved so gently to kiss her fullsome still rouged lips while somewhere exterior to such beauty some man upon our world lunged somewhere in such a furied hate as made a kill of one more human life to severe thus, if only for one instant, that so shared bliss that we two human beings here now so share in this our moving loving of two human lives where such a meshing bliss makes our so human understanding.
So, I am so undone by this my knowful feeling of such intimations as blights this world with blood and that so painful suffering of another, of how so many others, so many others – gushing forth from victims killed, raped, tortured, humiliated and profaned, when human passion exceeds desire of control bringing back thus the barbarian who always always seems to lie in wait, within.
But now – such a gentle moving passion to seal lips to lips as bodies move to mesh to sweat and a bright moon full within a domeful field of stars seeps light to this our room shared for two nights only and sea but two hundred yards in distance by stormful wind brings musick to mesh our souls in synchronicity of bliss.
Is there hope, here? Here, where musick from some recording plays and I in tears become such centuries of knowing as brings that desire to so control and so remember myself and those so many others who by such uncontrolled passion have so much in so many ways transgressed.
Thus, is there culture, here? Such culture as could as might bring such remembering as so disables me, here, now in this my moment of living? Here – where tears fall as then they did that one stormful night of rain stormy upon such a roof as made such loudful sounds to keep we two then still, content, happy, while freedom of such a storm lasted?
Is there that culture, here? Such culture as might bring such remembering as might make some others be-still and stop so that in that moment of such stillness, of their stopping that night, one person so stopped became released from so inflicting pain and suffering, and thus became one more coupled part of a couple bursting forth into being to share such bliss as we, she, share here in this our moonful night of sharing?
If only; if only. If only. For this is all that I am, all I have become, so that this is all I – we – are, here such that we remain so undone.
Yet is this memory enough – culture, musick - enough to so stop such future suffering, now? And just how are we here to know?
Thus it is that I here remain so undone in this my moment of knowing.
David Myatt
January 2011 CE
