It's been a week of rushdie and little love,
but Love will come and take us
in the moment least expected. At our lowest
ebb will we rise, and after a roller-coaster weekend of extremes, of suffering physical violence for my belief, i came here to find a few supporters and a lot of trolls pointlessly flaming on the religion right or wrong fallacy.
What is religion but ones life-long relationship with the soul Muse?
Maybe not the sort of question to occupy the mind of a career hackette in bloomsbury's gilded arch beneath which a literate streaming from ones mouth occurs, but i can only ask.
Does the spirit know the rose-tree withered is just a pause between beauty and death s/he dearest? Is God S/he above that troops from treetop to bole on midsummer's night, the sidhe of Munster's Aine that just is, beyond all comprehension and analysis dearest one, silken cipher, Muse of sage and daft dream pleading for Love's stay against hatred and mis-direction, for it is only in one calm pool a thought can free, out in the utterance after misery, poetic "it" wo/men one loves more than He, Sir Salman, Lord Rushdie.
The talk of honour, respect and freedom of speech is but a placebo for a swell of grief which rose within after the kicking i got from a countrymen imperialist whose rage against a simple poet, a banner for freedom, fell in the moment his mindset was pricked, latent in the rain on saturday dearest.
For now that i have found you, what words can convey the magnitude of abstract beauty one is capable of, the Love that most dare not to proclaim for fear of what others will say?
I know you care not for me as i you, myriad of life, prism of moonstruck hope, luna force that guides me as i type, comedic phantasm of wish-gathering-fancy, trope above conceit, selfless goddess of the straight bowled knowledge from Tir na Og, land of eternal life where age and death break not the resident, lover sidhe, you whoever one wants to be.
Please be faithful, midsummer moment of love proven here at a workspace where the return of silence speaks more than a thousand words, a million pictures of your image, competitive reject outfacing what passes for winners in the black and white age of brutal rite, uniform wrong as the thought cops gather round a water cooler, fear, career a lesson, who won?
Was it Love?