The apparition of my youthful body casts reflections across a heap of
days deeper than the sea. It is no more myself than the carcass of
some animal now that I stand here with synthetic heart and blood
pumping behind metal ribs.
It all started when I saw how wings worked and wanted them for
myself. A haze rested on the low strait, the sun pressing down upon
me, the first day I flew, the first day I saw the world from above —
its sorrow and its joy, its darkness and sun.
My mind stayed aloft until nature took her course, and heart pulsing
with precious hope I became a poet, recording wine drenched lines that
would later dress up to masquerade as verses. How grateful we were for
the turbulent drunkenness of love, lashed by that insatiable fire.
Over the centuries I have beheld herds of naked souls too numerous to
mention. The gleams of these vanished spirits still run through
creation’s veins, but they taught me only one lesson:
You may be the worshiped or the idol, never both.
Our myths tell us that knowledge is a tree whose mortal taste brings
death, but not for me. I have toiled wearily in this wretched scrap
heap since before the aleph came to these shores, inventing
everything I need to continue inventing.
IMAGE: Icarus, Sir Alfred Gilbert, 1882-4.