Chapter Thirty Three
Dream of night… the carnival begins.
The book explodes into flame, he knew nothing.
The lessons are to be revisited.
I am crucified, in memory of Christ. Could you begin to forgive, oh my Lord, my heresies?
The cross is rammed deep into the flesh of the hill, my rain soaked hair is whipped by the vicious wind; and yet still flames flicker up the wooden phallicy.
A thousand, no, a million dark creatures of yesteryear watch, with gross intent, my suffering. I scream at them, “Why do you not cower before this crucifixion, this icon of sacrifice, this idol of good?”
“Pisces is dead,” they retort, as if one, “The Old Gods rise once more. They do not judge on the repressed morality of frigid, impotent priests.”
Julia cuts a wake through the crowd.
She stands before the cross and bows her head in mockery. She then takes my erect penis into her red-lipped mouth. She sucks hard as her mouth moves up and down and her teeth scrape the flesh. Unknown pleasure sears my body, a thousand taboos are rejected within my ecstasy. I ejaculate, and within my orgasm all my repression explode and the creatures all crumble into dust with an ecstatic sigh.
A figure in a robe of brilliance carries me down from the cross and I snuggle against her firm breasts.
I watch as dawn splits the infinite skies.
By the mountainside I paint a white dove of peace and the living brushwork flies to the high peak. An eagle swoops and snatches the dove from the sky, its talons draw blood sluggishly from the, now broken, neck.
And I am hit by a cacophony.
A web of words.
I strain to hear what they say.
A name… John… no, not John.
Black angel, night warrior…
For me there can be no peace.
© 1990 & 2006 Andrew M Boylan