The Dark Angels are a come and go crew. They create then disappear like street art. Their works exist in fragments, particles that float, dust motes that spin before the wind that blows them to faraway places. They are individuals that work as one. Deep as oceans, as impenetrable as the night. Art urchins and poets, they dissolve before they form. They are the Dark Angels, they are discharge. They are a bloody mouthful.

Monday, 15 October 2012

There was I alone beneath the quavering moon. The stars hung about the sky like swallows on a birch tree. There was hunger on the horizon but nothing compared to my own appetite that gnawed insidiously at my stomach. I laid the calico cloth on the dewy meadow. It spread as a whisper over the bent grass.  Above me a silent midnight owl passed across the heavens casting a pale shadow on the ground. I opened the wicker basket taking out two plates, two sets of cutlery and two thin glasses all of which I set upon the coarse white fabric of the makeshift table cloth. Then I pulled out the bottle of Dom Perignon along with a silver corkscrew inscribed with two names: Adain and Branna.

I poured the first glass for my true love. The wine flowed free gurgling like a water spirit. It was as though the air from her lungs, seeking the gift of oxygen, hissed and bubbled. I remembered stones shifting under rushing water. A turf caught by the hook of her heel tumbled with a splash into the river. It made a dull splash. The sound was a conclusion; a door being shut on someone’s history.

I raised my glass to her then tipped a libation to the ghosts of our ancestors; to the unspoken, forgotten gods who trembled with impotent neglect before leaving us to our own devices. I chinked my glass against hers. The sound was of a miniature church bell tolling a welcome to the midnight hour; a fulsome pagan ring that sent three wood pigeons to heavy winged flight. They’re such stupid birds I said smiling at her. I laughed at my own wit then poured more champagne. I took from the basket four white tureens. Lifting the lid from the first I saw honey glazed carrots; in the second the roasted breasts of young partridges; in the third buttered asparagus whilst the fourth contained new potatoes coated in butter then garnished with mint.

I kissed those lips of ruby red, I caressed that ivory throat, cupped her warm breast in the palm of my hand, held her body next to mine as it quivered with pleasure, and watched those grey eyes fade to white.

The wind blew softly warning me of the autumn chill. I felt a shiver run down my spine. It could have been her fingers tracing my backbone’s curve

I asked, are you not eating my love? Her appetite was never large. Realising my error I took her glass, still bubbling with champagne, by the stem then walked to the river. Her face still beautiful to me, her smile of purest white, reflected now in the mirrored waters of the river. I poured another libation into the chuckling stream - to the memory of times gone by.

"And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all."


Aaron Held said...

Awesome imagery and scenes, really good writing cj. Whats the idea behind the image?

Russell 'C.J.' Duffy said...

Hi Aaron..the image is Gaelic. It is from their pantheon of gods and goddesses.

Oilsforfun-Cristina Homem de Melo said...

Simply great writing,disturbing imaginary scenes, never able to guess your "conclusions" - a pantheon of imaginations

Russell 'C.J.' Duffy said...

Thanks Cristina!

TICTAC said...

beautiful piece with elegant use of words and language. and a bit surreal feel there more?

Russell 'C.J.' Duffy said...

Thank you Tictac. I think that I will leave it as it is and not add to it. The mystery appeals to me.

A.Decker said...

Skillful and subtle. Very enjoyable.

Russell 'C.J.' Duffy said...

A.Decker>>>Thank you. Much appreciated.