AOS IN SEVEN
For Austin Osman Spare
If I raise my pen and write, ‘Behold’, the next thing that I do is draw circles on your belly with black ink. I draw ritualistic blood from your passion. With it I close the gate of senses behind me. I throw you on the bed – my bed – and with my black hair turned white I tingle your nostrils. The art of memory is no game for you. Your love is more profound in your tears not your plans. ‘Behold,’ I say, the heat from my palm turns redundant knowledge into ubiquitous urge, and you find your affinities change. I serve the logomachy of Zos and you just follow like a Zombie.
If I raise my pen and write, ‘Behold’, the next thing that I do is draw circles on your belly with black ink. I draw ritualistic blood from your passion. With it I close the gate of senses behind me. I throw you on the bed – my bed – and with my black hair turned white I tingle your nostrils. The art of memory is no game for you. Your love is more profound in your tears not your plans. ‘Behold,’ I say, the heat from my palm turns redundant knowledge into ubiquitous urge, and you find your affinities change. I serve the logomachy of Zos and you just follow like a Zombie.
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