1.

In the castle, several years have come
And gone. The music of youth has faded.
The pilgrim has withered, grizzled and
Shrunk in size. The castle is still under

Siege. The barbaric times have evolved.
A fat, balding bland pope has taken office.
Wars are multiplying like furry animals.
The way of silk is being mechanised.

2.

The castle is ageing like a beautiful lass,
The alpine eyes overlooking a river of
Sadness, the limbs slightly sore, slightly
Stiffer, still in need of love and care, but

The hands and loins of lovers are growing
Scarce, and her sweet joyful face is like
An autumn day, undecisive, under attack,
Resolute in the wake of a battle she is

3.

Almost entirely certain that she will lose.
Her resolve was never greater, her hand
Never steadier. Her children flock at her
Feet, still climb her fortress and parapets

In search for protection, blind in the faith
That the future is ever increasing, that
The lessons of Panglossism apply to us,
Confident that immortality is a gift granted.

4.

The pilgrim has long since ceased his
Pilgrimage, and in the midst of all the chaos
He has chosen a career as professional
Religious man, now that faith has left him.

As the barricade of broken, braking ships
Cracks on, as foreign bandits slowly crawl
In at night and build an army of plunderers
Within the city walls, as long as time slows,

5.

The pilgrim keeps the Temple open;
He sweeps the floors, he paints the sun-baked
Walls, he dusts the mouldy paintings.
Panting and coughing as he labours,

The pilgrim thinks of nothing, perhaps
Only about tomorrow’s breakfast. As he
Walks in rounds, left shoulder to the outer
Wall, he wields the temple keys like toys.

6.

He slowly entertains the stair, upwards
Toward the top of the tower: from atop
The belfry he can oversee the entire harbour
In flames, along with his faith, and the faith

Of others, merchants, zealots, junkies
And drug-dealers alike. Atop the deck,
He rolls his beads and mutters nonsense
Under his breath, his mantra has long

7.

Since ceased to mean anything. Presently
A cannonade shakes all and his senses,
The walls of a nearby building take a hit.
As he rejoins the habitual haunters of

The temple hall, he notices a gluttonous
Fat woman filling the offering bowl with
Oil to the brim. The wall painters are busy
Frescoing, he offers them a glass of water.

8.

There is a thick hack of beef sitting on
The altar, an oddity, given the worship
Of the Bull-White Man, the prince of lilies,
And the ancient rites of the double-axe.

The mystical calf has two thick angry horns
And religion is no longer simple, and the
Basilica is on the town square, overlooking
A new marble fountain, a gift from the most

9.

Recent foreign conqueror. A grim decor
Of vaulting, revolting sugary statuines
Whizzing around like candy floss, syrupy
Water spouting softly, like the lies of

Old and new masters, invaders, conquerors,
Warlords local and foreign, all bent on
Securing the future at the expense of the
Present, while the past looks on in horror.

10.

The pilgrim has made it. He has forsaken
The life of spirituality and pseudo Mystic
Falling for the robes and offices of an
Institutionalized Supplicant, where his

Daily routine involves archiving, cleaning
And devolving responsibility to unwitting
Underlings, who are eager to appear busy,
Ever begging the approval of others.

11.

As they live to appear to be serving,
The pilgrim is monk, healer, public servant.
He no longer sees ghosts at night and day,
And his third eye has been sealed shut.

His folly has been contained, and he does
Not listen to God anymore, not anymore
Than to a nagging wife. But in his little
Life, he keeps an extraordinary secret.

12.

In the temple, he guards three doors to
Other dimensions. One leads to a small
Island of Grecian deities, another leads
To a narrow cave where a Nepalese prince

Once hid. The third to a system of tunnels
Under a city famous for tulips, apples,
Snow leopards, mountains, and looking
On the vastness of the murderous steppe.

13.

Many a night the pilgrim steps through
The second door to sit alone in the heat
Of the cave. Interdimensional travel just
Happens, he does not think much of it.

In the cave he listens in to the radio waves
Of his greed, his anger, his resentment
And fear. He now longs for peace, but at
What cost. Ghosts cannot reach him.

14.

In the cave, he does not fear the vampires,
Ghosts, ghouls on the other side, and he
Has long since ceased to dwell on the
Meaning of stories written on paper or

On water. His education ended the minute
He sat in meditation and he saw a black
Circle canceling out the moon. The words
Of libraries failed him, and silence is gone.

97.

Suddenly, the earth shakes with deep
intensely-fragranced methane fire gases.
The sharp, prolonged fart of Zeus lying
prostrate, angrily reaches the city of apple

And in the misty dungeons asphyxia soars
carrying all the voices of buried hardship.
The adventurers see further visions, and
all the while from the cracked chasm…

98.

… a lava place rises like vomit in the throat,
then a momentary pause, then another
earthly flatulation, Apollo gives us his
thoughts, and from the sea beyond the

Never-ending steppe, venereal waves
carry the semen of the Gods. So, a long
retreat, then a hurricane hurls unto the
Castle, propelling on a tsunami of bodies.

99.

In the dungeons, the illusion-confounded
adventurers are teleported from the end
of the steppe or the underground memories
under the city of apples to the island of

The Castle, on to the cradle of civilisation
now contested by two warring factions.
Zeus lets out one last, lingering poisonous
ripple-wet fart, and then sleep comes over.

95.

The White Plague has us in thrall:
Back at the Castle, war is raging.
The pilgrim is safely back from
venomous enlightenment, now

He lives the life of a civilian, inside
the city under siege, bound by karma,
Defeated every day by the urges of
Body and Soul of his and other fools.

96.

The White Plague rages, turning
Soft bodies into vampires, eyes
greedy with a need for more gold,
aglow in an ever-darkening world

Our eyes turning to ember screens,
Waving shame like feathers, riding
false waves of pretend immortality;
pneumatic, sore, with a deathly urge.

93.

In these tunnels I have found reminders
Of my own inadequate guilt. I am half a
man, I am not a boy, not yet a child.
I am the egg that holds the key, and

I wish that you’d forgive me, pity. For
my sins are all powerful, and they haunt
me, and in these tunnels I see visions
of what could have been. My love for Her:

94.

Dream-eater is ever-growing. I see: she is
is herself ever-growing ever lustshameful,
a monster of her own accord, and my own
monstrousity I can no longer keep inside.

No longer can I keep the secret of my half
ghoulish werewolf nature; I wish to devour
the flesh of my kin, and my love shall be
the end of friendship, of our brotherhood.

91.

In these tunnels I see everything
I am the all-powerful storm in the desert,
My body is multiple womanly rain-forests,
I record every single moment of my rain-bow

existence in the annals of history.
I am an immortal, that is my yogin boast.
My beauty is legendary, my soul is all
colourful, and you shall be in awe.

92.

In the abyss I have seen the image
of father, and of mother. I never think
of her. She was not around when my body
was anointed, and my soul was forged.

I carry around these little people in
my pocket, and they are servants to my
purpose, which is to find myself, to
grow to ever-size to finally be a giant.

89.

In these tunnels there is all-nothing
My magick sees through the witch dim
crafts, and my own wizardry is all-seeing
I know the sticks and tribulations ahead.

I shall not fall for all this delusional mess,
You beggar-bitch, you are meddling with
The wrong sort. I am Bee-Stinger, and
You shall fear me. I know stitch from fraud.

90.

I know the fabric with which the fair gods
Have created all lofty clouds. I have seen
the roots of the abyss and I am unafraid.
My sister is hungry from temporal freedom,

But I am made of sterner meddle. All this
Is as much an illusion as you and me,
Little witch, and your rotten fruit shall not
Redeem me, for I have seen into the fire.

87.

In these tunnels I have found nothing
But the same siren-songs sluicing softly,
Oozing out of my ears, my own adventures
A curse impossible to live up to, a chain.

I am Marco Querini: a liar. A prescriber of
intoxicants, a smuggler of broken dreams.
I have travelled far and wide to escape
The shadow of my father, his judgement.

88.

My boast is that I have killed my best friend,
I have feasted in his blood, triumphed over
His clay’d over body, mastering its poison,
Surrounded by powerful allies, now exiled.

I claim my vengeance in these dungeons,
I can see it as clear as day, looking down
The parapet of my Venetian high mansion,
In the alley below, the corpse of my enemy.

Some time I am in the place,
But not with the person.
Sometimes, I am with a person,
But not in the place, and not with the people.

Some times, the people I love are far away,
And some are dead, and some will die,
And I will die.

And some times, just sometimes
I am in the place, with polyamorphous spirit,
Unable to change the course of time,
And my love is like a ripple in the water,
And no one can hear its echos in eternity.