Sananda Maitreya ...

 ‘Nigor Mortis’
Subtitle: A Nigor, Mortgaged.

But what could Edwin do?
His hocus pocus had gone out of focus, and his ongoing nexus prevented his locus from finding his lotus (this would end more neatly had Edwin been named Otis).
He had been outwitted, outfoxed by a wily hen, and now years of his life would belong to her, spittle and cough. Dense psycho spastic years. Years where the long hand on the clock wall resembled a middle finger. Years carpeted with molasses. Years that were bulls-eyes to darts, and their opinions. Years being pounded by the barren Earls for taking too long with their girls. She would betray to the magistrates the description of a life his memory could not embrace. She would in court, testify and hiss against a life used to poetry as the language between the lines, and all but have him turned upside down to see if any nickels rolled out of his pants.
She would feel the occasional itch to scratch at his life, and look for signs of blood. And then remove the blood to the lab, to see if its value had risen and if more could be gotten from it. And she was obsessed with his containment. Nothing would ever again be his without a sizable portion of what was hers, attached. They die hard that die so easy, they to whom death comes before it even announces its arrival. No space was respected between it, you and the welcome mat. It barged in, with drinking buddies, and took over your life. It came then with accessories and braided your hair the way it wanted. You were scolded for daring to want a life you once had before giving it so carelessly away to a beast called love. You fell for it, were groomed to need it, to bow, hopelessly romantic, at the feet of what would impale you with its disdain for reach. Cack handed, callow, you would wallow in its search until its stench drove you south. O how wondrous and divine is the pussy. And O how murderous the contempt it has for us. And how exhausting its attempts to re-make men into programs for pilgrims and their pogroms. What once simple pussy was, now politics all is. What once a source of comfort, now a source of shambles. The Man of a Thousand Years, through his friend Luther Means (and Luther Means business!), once told Edwin that the messenger does not get the message until AFTER they have delivered it, never before. He would wonder whether morals were just a burden or whether they were our just burden. He would eventually pass through all of the vices it would take to hide his shame and shelter his dwindling carcass. Then, he would let them go and cling to the vice he could not surrender, a predilection for supremely bad puns, and dodgy word play. Though she could not rob his desire, that untouchable splendid thing, his motivation she could hinder, without the cause of which, desire remains unfulfilled, dreams remain but ashes for empathy. Despite what, within the confines of a nightmare, could still be appropriated as pieces of a dream, what for a brief summer was, has been for long winters , not. What rose with the first breaths of spring, fell ankle weary by autumn.
Thereafter, Edwin would find his life chained to the grinding aftermath of a lie. Who knew she was also a spy? Delilah on a working holiday. She was a ‘confusionist’, and could manage to convince Samson that he was instead the Son of Sam. As a government agent she was stunning, as an assassin, somewhat lacking. Who knew that her vision of love would so vastly differ from his own. His denomination was love, she loved only denominations. Vivid was the joy with which she would thwart his every desire. She would contemptuously mock his belief in a God. To even believe in God, in a Godless world is it’s own form of Sado-Masochism, yet it was the form he understood. To know God is to suffer him. To know fatal love is to suffer both the love and the lover, the disease and it’s cause. Luther had also once granted Edwin something said to him by the ‘Man of a Thousand’, to wit: ‘The only way to survive resurrection, is to jump in at the deepest end of the grave’ Survive?
He would survive it. And he wouldn’t at the same time. Betrayed by the dream of love, whereupon him it was used to pry open the secrets of his heart, reducing his vineyards from reason to vinegrette. Edwin’s ‘raison d’être’, his confidence and joy in his vision would be taunted and mocked by the very same souls who would come looking for its rescue skills later. He demurred. Once betrayed, once so cravingly spoiled, he would retreat. He would then from a careful distance watch his life fall into the black hole which had been written into his story in order to obscure him. He would let it. Some say he chanted for peace, others say revenge. Perhaps all thoroughbreds need a little breakdown. He came to view ‘Love’ as a matter for Pilgrims, and their progress. For such as he, it was but a trap. A good man broken and abused for falling on the level side of curiosity, but the wrong side of caste. There are but a tiny few who know now the whereabouts of Edwin. He now shuns the attention he once craved, and shushes all talk of what might have been. There are those who can plan their lives, more still who can only ‘counter-plan’ their existence. Edwin had always to respond to what responded to Edwin, he was used to running after those who ran after him. They were never intended to catch the other, only to run after the other, giving the other the necessary exercise needed to do nothing but wait. Rumours were of a small sea side town far from industrial north. “If they put the cause of death on gravestones, too many other people’s names would be on it”, once thought Edwin in a lighter black moment Grace would favour him to never see her again. There is less ‘Agency’ involvement and mischief attending his council, bending his ear. Less presumption interferes. He’s at peace. His prayers are now back in his own hands. He gardens a lot and keeps what he finds. He has also developed a curious fascination with snails. And he briefly had a dog for a spell, a good dog, which he had named ‘Otis’.

MILANO 6th MAY 2008