Dancing With Dragons
Spoilers: None
Content Rating: 15
Type: Other
Characters:
Summary: An overdose on DeQuincy or too much scotch; judge for yourself. Non-fanfic.
Content Rating: 15
Type: Other
Characters:
Summary: An overdose on DeQuincy or too much scotch; judge for yourself. Non-fanfic.
Content advice: includes some extremely strong language.
__________________________________________________________________
“England, land of hope and glories, blessed by God, ruled by Regina, governed by …”
My hands traced slowly down the pipe’s shaft, and stopped. Without my really realizing it – realization is rarely burdensome to one here – my fingers began to tap a light tattoo against the instrument’s knurled wooden surface.
“Governed by …”
Who can govern us?
Even in my sarcasm I could not fathom an answer, for whoÂ’s cognisance could ever compare to ours? When seeking governance, man seeks to have his mind taken in hand and be guided the experienced. What a quandary it is to us then, what a tragedy among tragedies, when those with an experience to surpass ours do not appear to us, and never will do. Those who could not even follow us into this place cannot possibly take us in hand.
Our sole hindrance to taking their place is our inability to articulate, but that is only due to their inability to comprehend. How could they experience what we were vicariously, how could they possibly? It would be like asking a virgin to comprehend the most intimate love with only his own shaft, sheets and inchoate imaginings as his guide.
The masses – they are all virgins, however many tuppeny uprights they may have had. Connoisseurs of the velvet they may consider themselves, but in this land, as Byron so rightly commented, the cant is stronger than cunt – not that you would necessarily know it looking to our Lords, masters and ostensible betters – and where quim does not serve to seduce them, humbug never fails.
Skeins were spiralling past my face now, so I took another inhalation from my own LoverÂ’s shaft, entwined tenderly in my gaunt fingers, and fell back into the velvet folds surrounding my supine body. Looking upwards, I saw neither the blood red and gold silken drapes nor the cavernous arches that soared above them; of my current surroundings, there was nothing but the dancing pall before me.
And what a pall it was, for I fancied I saw a dragon there.
It was lithe, powerful and dancing before my flittering eyes. It was dancing for me, and between its gouts of fire-breath it whispered to me its secrets, and what secrets they were. They were the secrets of old, of enrichment beyond imagination, and they were secrets they, the virginal masses, would never know.
Tell them to come here, I thought. Tell them to lie down, surrender themselves to the velvet and the dancing dragon, and listen to its whispers. Tell them to be loved instead of fucked, that not England, their cherry-blossomed peers nor the God of Westminster and Britannia can confide to them duties that are in truth but duties because they are said to be duties. The duties of the unloved masses are not the duties of the Emperor and his harem, but while every one of them aspires of ascension to the bordello even as it fucks them, they can never be free of it. This is their paradox, their tomb, and all-encompassing mausoleum with ever-open gates, and acoustics perfected for the unending elegiac of their unrewarded sacrifice.
Yet they frown that we should have an elegiac of our own making? Poor fools! Hypocrisies are frequently gross, but yet more frequently funny. We may be freaks in our gilded cage to them, but looking out from here is to us as it is to the big game hunter looking out upon the sunbleached Savannah and its curious inhabitants. They spend their days hunting and copulating, because thatÂ’s all nature tells them to do, and they are, all of them, happy in doing it. They call them beasts, but who are they, pitifully chained in their virginal bonds and constantly raped by the shrewdest fuckers that ever lived, to criticise?
If only those animals of the Savannah could comprehend us, oh how they would laugh. Sadly the only beast that can laugh is one they will never see, the one that is dancing before my eyes. ItÂ’s laughing now, and I do disparage it so to call it a beast, though being the fine creature it is, I trust fully that the irony will assuage any offence. I think in fact that could well be why itÂ’s laughing, and so I join it.
Unlike the game hunters though, we are unarmed. But that we had weapons we would be as dangerous to them as the smoking muzzle of a rifle is to the feral might of a prowling lion, and every bit as effective.
Arms however we do not take, and never will. Who among them is there to conquer? What of theirs could we take that we do not have here? They have riches and power to be sure, but if any tangible riches exist that could compare to the pall that currently embraces me, I have yet to see them, and doubt I ever will. And power? Oh, how I must laugh, and this time it is the Dragon who joins me, because power over them would be as burdensome as the chains holding the most cowed of those poor wretched plantation slaves.
This is our paradox, as their raped virginity is theirs. We could rule over them, but to do so would make us the enslaved, not the enslavers. In their world we are thruppeny sideshow freaks and in ours they share the very same accolade. The two worlds can never collide, because that is not our way, and the very essence of what we are will ensure we always remain so. When you place their tangible against our intangible, it is like setting corporeality off against a metaphor. It is simply a battle that can never be fought, because for any battle you need somewhere to wage it, and ever finding a mutual battlefield with them is an impossibility if ever there was one.
It whispers to me again now, revealing into my confidence its deepest and most sacred wisdoms. I learn from a dancing Oriental spectre more in minutes than most of the lucid will share with their brethren in a lifetime, and again, I cannot help but laugh.
One final time, it laughs with me, and before I can say anything further it is gone, without even the most fleeting of farewells. This is the way of it any time you care to mention, infuriating yet essential, for though I can never bear to be parted form it, more than a few minutes of its secrets would overwhelm me.
It is why I must keep chasing it, and why after our brief dance it must keep eluding me.
It is the most intimate love I can ever know, yet it can only be consequently fair that be followed by the most dire of heartbreak. Already the tears have come to my eyes, and against such tears any battle would be as futile as the aforementioned war between Them and Us.
I rolled slowly into the velvet caress of the couch, and sobbed softly to myself.
“Until we meet again, my dear erstwhile friend,” I whispered, then lay back, for now my omnipotent conversing was done it was time to allow a very mortal torpor to consume me.
My eyes fell shut, and fancying I could again see the Dragon before me, I ran eagerly to embrace it.
~
© Peter Foster, 2003
__________________________________________________________________
“England, land of hope and glories, blessed by God, ruled by Regina, governed by …”
My hands traced slowly down the pipe’s shaft, and stopped. Without my really realizing it – realization is rarely burdensome to one here – my fingers began to tap a light tattoo against the instrument’s knurled wooden surface.
“Governed by …”
Who can govern us?
Even in my sarcasm I could not fathom an answer, for whoÂ’s cognisance could ever compare to ours? When seeking governance, man seeks to have his mind taken in hand and be guided the experienced. What a quandary it is to us then, what a tragedy among tragedies, when those with an experience to surpass ours do not appear to us, and never will do. Those who could not even follow us into this place cannot possibly take us in hand.
Our sole hindrance to taking their place is our inability to articulate, but that is only due to their inability to comprehend. How could they experience what we were vicariously, how could they possibly? It would be like asking a virgin to comprehend the most intimate love with only his own shaft, sheets and inchoate imaginings as his guide.
The masses – they are all virgins, however many tuppeny uprights they may have had. Connoisseurs of the velvet they may consider themselves, but in this land, as Byron so rightly commented, the cant is stronger than cunt – not that you would necessarily know it looking to our Lords, masters and ostensible betters – and where quim does not serve to seduce them, humbug never fails.
Skeins were spiralling past my face now, so I took another inhalation from my own LoverÂ’s shaft, entwined tenderly in my gaunt fingers, and fell back into the velvet folds surrounding my supine body. Looking upwards, I saw neither the blood red and gold silken drapes nor the cavernous arches that soared above them; of my current surroundings, there was nothing but the dancing pall before me.
And what a pall it was, for I fancied I saw a dragon there.
It was lithe, powerful and dancing before my flittering eyes. It was dancing for me, and between its gouts of fire-breath it whispered to me its secrets, and what secrets they were. They were the secrets of old, of enrichment beyond imagination, and they were secrets they, the virginal masses, would never know.
Tell them to come here, I thought. Tell them to lie down, surrender themselves to the velvet and the dancing dragon, and listen to its whispers. Tell them to be loved instead of fucked, that not England, their cherry-blossomed peers nor the God of Westminster and Britannia can confide to them duties that are in truth but duties because they are said to be duties. The duties of the unloved masses are not the duties of the Emperor and his harem, but while every one of them aspires of ascension to the bordello even as it fucks them, they can never be free of it. This is their paradox, their tomb, and all-encompassing mausoleum with ever-open gates, and acoustics perfected for the unending elegiac of their unrewarded sacrifice.
Yet they frown that we should have an elegiac of our own making? Poor fools! Hypocrisies are frequently gross, but yet more frequently funny. We may be freaks in our gilded cage to them, but looking out from here is to us as it is to the big game hunter looking out upon the sunbleached Savannah and its curious inhabitants. They spend their days hunting and copulating, because thatÂ’s all nature tells them to do, and they are, all of them, happy in doing it. They call them beasts, but who are they, pitifully chained in their virginal bonds and constantly raped by the shrewdest fuckers that ever lived, to criticise?
If only those animals of the Savannah could comprehend us, oh how they would laugh. Sadly the only beast that can laugh is one they will never see, the one that is dancing before my eyes. ItÂ’s laughing now, and I do disparage it so to call it a beast, though being the fine creature it is, I trust fully that the irony will assuage any offence. I think in fact that could well be why itÂ’s laughing, and so I join it.
Unlike the game hunters though, we are unarmed. But that we had weapons we would be as dangerous to them as the smoking muzzle of a rifle is to the feral might of a prowling lion, and every bit as effective.
Arms however we do not take, and never will. Who among them is there to conquer? What of theirs could we take that we do not have here? They have riches and power to be sure, but if any tangible riches exist that could compare to the pall that currently embraces me, I have yet to see them, and doubt I ever will. And power? Oh, how I must laugh, and this time it is the Dragon who joins me, because power over them would be as burdensome as the chains holding the most cowed of those poor wretched plantation slaves.
This is our paradox, as their raped virginity is theirs. We could rule over them, but to do so would make us the enslaved, not the enslavers. In their world we are thruppeny sideshow freaks and in ours they share the very same accolade. The two worlds can never collide, because that is not our way, and the very essence of what we are will ensure we always remain so. When you place their tangible against our intangible, it is like setting corporeality off against a metaphor. It is simply a battle that can never be fought, because for any battle you need somewhere to wage it, and ever finding a mutual battlefield with them is an impossibility if ever there was one.
It whispers to me again now, revealing into my confidence its deepest and most sacred wisdoms. I learn from a dancing Oriental spectre more in minutes than most of the lucid will share with their brethren in a lifetime, and again, I cannot help but laugh.
One final time, it laughs with me, and before I can say anything further it is gone, without even the most fleeting of farewells. This is the way of it any time you care to mention, infuriating yet essential, for though I can never bear to be parted form it, more than a few minutes of its secrets would overwhelm me.
It is why I must keep chasing it, and why after our brief dance it must keep eluding me.
It is the most intimate love I can ever know, yet it can only be consequently fair that be followed by the most dire of heartbreak. Already the tears have come to my eyes, and against such tears any battle would be as futile as the aforementioned war between Them and Us.
I rolled slowly into the velvet caress of the couch, and sobbed softly to myself.
“Until we meet again, my dear erstwhile friend,” I whispered, then lay back, for now my omnipotent conversing was done it was time to allow a very mortal torpor to consume me.
My eyes fell shut, and fancying I could again see the Dragon before me, I ran eagerly to embrace it.
~
© Peter Foster, 2003
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