The Fascination of Blogs
The Fascination of Blogs
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The Fifth Moon (Demonic Rape: Part I)
A Dramatic Prose Poem
The Fifth Moon (Eltz Castle, Night in the Mosel Valley)
Part I
(1974) “I must talk to the dead,” Eva said. The old seer listened closely, she asked for ten-marks for her services.
Said Eva, “Is it death I must face to reach them?”
“Death, O death,” responded Ronda, the seer, “death with a tear you may think is death, but it is not.”
So the old seer (at Eltz Medieval Castle, in the Mosel Valley of Germany) laid her hands upon her breasts, The Duke, called Львов the Lion, looking from his den of Saxony and Bavaria (AD 1192), just stared.
Said the old Seer (with wide, owl looking eyes), “You must not groan, when you go down to death lest you wake them up and spoil your quest!”
“If the dead come to my aid, I will reward you with 1000-Marks,” said Eva; a nice sum.
In and out of the courtyard the old seer paced, swimming with thoughts, chanting; Ў Ѓ 593N/90A then someone somewhere was yanking on the iron bell ringer at the gate, a summon to let them in, and the seer opened it, but no one walked through, no one visible.
The breath of dusk, sank over the valley, a dark sickness came with it. And the old seer laid down, as it sank overhead, laid down holding her knees in her hands, her forehead bruised, as if something haunting had slapped her naked being around. She whimpered quietly, covering herself with old fallen leaves, as Eva knelt beside her. The moon had lowered itself; it seemed now to have acquired ripples, five ripples to its rim, making it look like five moons, five eyes looking at Eva.
The hideous night— was developing into a crystal orange, purple ash night, laced with dark hues.
Both remained silent, Eva, waiting for the seer, and her journey to the voiceless deep; it was funny she thought how the fall leaves that laid upon the ground, around the seer, seemed to leap around her, and the Штативы air, the atmosphere had no wind, Eva’s nerves were under agitation.
“Is it time,” she asked.
But the seer’s eyes were bolted shut, with blackness, black lids. Her pulse was nil: Eva stumbled and then stopped, and her body lifted, hands unseen once waiting, were not waiting anymore, but were laid over her breasts and diaphragm: then an assault took place, panting over her fleshly frame, young and tender like a child’s; her flesh hot—inside out, took on pain; then the presence withdrew, muttering as if it wasn’t through
and the shadows now under the walls of the fortress, moved like blinking eyes: moved into a little light from the fire on the moons, as it trailed down upon these moving shapes in the courtyard, and the old woman seer, who didn’t move and yet was bruised.
“Ingles, speak Ingles,” Eva cried. And the voice in that