[full text published at Great Works]
To Robert Burns
It’s a Catch 22 situation.
I’m yours, you’re mine.
The Freemasons are dogs.
[Note: the above lines are sampled from the dialogue of the 1976 costume melodrama ‘Burns Night’, directed by George Winters and starring Bryant McKenzie and Nicola Appleby. A marvellously bawdy, lurid account of a night in the life of the Scots poet Robert Burns, ‘Burns Night’ is a piece of cinematic magic which brings to light the poet’s connections with the Freemasons.]
Love and Enmity, One Thing
Here’s a quivering and deceptive, moving welcome to the corrupt divine, a criminal souvenir for the twins, Love and Death, drawing logical inferences from the situation and cessation of the Divided Sign:
The Undivided Sign reads the feeling of the unalloyed, external ceremony. Its fingers dispense invisible medicine to statuesque catalogue people. Their ultra-terrestrial light exceeds the umbrella of the afternoon, salted over the carving platter like a rarely traversed symbol.
Fundamentally being yourself underwater, you centre the circle.
The adornment of an iconic Lux cipher mould is reunited with the transcendent Song of the Morrow, instrumental to ultra-violence. Biting the air, ascending to dismantle a psychoanalytical skeleton with the finesse of a witch, at the fetish-matrix, where in subterranean speak, call it what you like, tomorrow — tomorrow — war equals love.
Call it what you like! This is a chance beyond compare.
There are trickles of Soma, riots, no-war strategies. An intensely beautiful, limpid incorrigibility: a blameless passion seeks damnation and dreaming over.
There is an irreverent simulation of confessional settlements at the chasm. Hearken! Deep in love, you are the greatest Evil. It’s so mundane! Darkened by a hedonist’s veil, I remember the legend for exemption from this squalid registration gone berserk. Fabulously, the shambolic platinum of creamy fellow diverse psychism ended.
Cabinets are on the knock. There is pursuit. The beloved, craven and placid at the exhibition, entitles old sovereign shipwrecked, far-fetched, barren islands a rusty relic sold to foreign travellers.
Ultimately crossed, begetting no formulas for who was saved, the neighbours are safe inside their precious money.
At the back of the flooded warehouse, the most suitable meat and shoes are sought. The serene and hearty are embellished with murdered swans. At the centre of our circle of adultery, in the foetal position, sleep is of the punishment of worthwhile abuse.
Read more at Great Works
[text & image © A. A. Walker]