While in the East...

There are certain stories that are left half unsaid; Kubla Khan for instance. Was Kubla Khan better left unfinished, or was the genius of Coleridge as active in his waking hours? A difficult but important question; I have decided to circumvent the problem and leave this continuation to Malt Et Falchion incomplete. Perhaps it should be added to the Unfinished Tales section eh?

I could hear its heart beating like a motor pump. It began to slow down, while mine speeded up. Slowly inching towards each other from the distan ends of the spectrum till they synchronized in perfect rhythmic harmony. Lub dupp, lub dupp, it went. While it breathed the sweet airs outside the marshlands where magroves grow. Where wraiths roam the slimy waters, shadowy blue will o the wisps glowing in the darkening light, morpging into forms through homographies that echoed across planes.

I heard the music from its voice though I dared not turn. Our disparity continued across the sands of time and space/ it revolved around me from left to right. Facing me while its other side faced the rising yellow moon. Strangers, we finally faced each other’s sidelong glances. I could not see its face, it was hidden in the folds of its cloack, within the recesses that hide the sun from the eyes. The other wraiths turned to face the light. Beaming rays of moonshine came down, flashing light on faces that had not seen day nor night, one eyes that were blind to the beauty of colour, on ears that would not hear the melody of music, on noses that would not no Arabian perfume, on mouths that would never taste wine. The drums buzzed on faster than wounded bumblebees, while a wgnerian tune could be heard in the distance bellowing to the dins of ragnarok.

A respite. We close our eyes and are transported to a rocky landscape, a veritable desrt that stretched on towards the horizon. A mosaic of a texture of penrose tilings. A panorama of rocks sweeps across my vision. The music plays on and as I turn, a body is flung behind me like a sack of potatoes. I don my robe and scimitar, and turn…

A voice plays in my head, a loquacious, luscious voice full of promise. Croons it in my ear, Kill him and I promise you power over lands. An ancient hag screams Outwit him and I shall grant you knowledge and people. I husky voice hinted Grant him mercy and I shall grant you a woman. Was Paris in lust? Can we rewrite legends I think, Is it possible to race Agamemnon on his run again and again, while the world kept pace with the probabilistic calculations? Her face flashed in my mind. Careful. Brown streaked hair swept back from a fair face, cut to the shoulders. A fair brow, green, greys eyes, I remember not. A pointed nose, petulant red lips, high cheeks and a dimpled chin. With that axe, Eugene.

I scream while he provides the echo in the distance. Breathe my son. Behind this mask I grow weary, come again when I call. I glide my scimitar from my sash. The knight will not have my scimitar, for was it not changed a long time ago, into a falchion? Will we not rise again I ask, to defend the East when the twain meet? Will not the broken eggshell once join again as was predicted by The Poet when he died on Siddhartha’s shoulder?

It moves with constant periodicity. The dragon will return again to be covered by its shell, death and life in constant reversal, a phoenix living its life backwards.You need monocular vision to see infinity. I see near it now, an eye whose iris is black with a pupil blacker than pitch. It comes towards me growing more stylized and much like the eye of horus. The cymbals crash. The light of a sun glows behind that black pupil, it resolves into a cube- 1 4 9. a neuman machine of epic proportions.