KING DAVID

I know you’re weary; I know you’re lonely; you shall have to stop and take a look around you; you never look through your eyes. What’s this massive stone doing in your crown? What are all these silken threads?

The scepter is snapped; the spider’s threads are cut: this is your death, my love.

And the power has gone out of him, his eyes do not see, his ears do not hear. This is all something of a crab smashed under a stone; this is all something of a cockroach scrambling for meat. Where did you get such lovely blooming roses? I know you’ve crossed the Jordan naked: for your soul has been stripped of everything.

Where is your fire? Where are your glimmering shields? Where are your armies and your strongholds?

You pass through the flames: this is your purification. You are bathed in the smoke of incense and given perfumes and ointments. You are made whole by flame and smoke; by water, you are made supple and young. Where are your roses for eyes? Where are your jewels for ears and your crown for a head? This is your little time: time has shrunken to the size of a diamond ring: you shall put it in your hand and close your hand: you are king.

You are hungry, I know it: the dead are always hungry. Are you thirsty too? We shall put a robe on your back and a scepter in your hand. You shall have purified maidens and concubines, smelling of perfume and spices.

The delicate chinaware is shattered to pieces; the gentle fleece is consumed in flame: you are dead, my love, and now you live among the shadows.

What was that shadow I thought I saw in the moonlight? What are these shifting shapes in the darkness, and what was that faint voice I thought I heard in the wind? They are the dead, my people, this is their form and substance now: they live in the realm of the dream, where reason cannot penetrate; they live in the shadows and darkness; they live deep under the waters of the sea.

And now he’s open to the infection. He’s laid bare, defenseless, weak. They swarm like bees: they are a massive army, and no one can conquer them. But where are you going with that sword on your hip? What are these deep waters but your home? What are these deep caves but the home of devils and everything mysterious? We are all very blind; we are all very drunk and we are all dreaming: this is the irrational, the deep, the numinous water of life. Come and drink purity with me: we are still in the splendor of our youth, my love.

And his feet and hands are bound with rope. What’s this great pig laid out on the table, an apple in its mouth? What are these male and female prostitutes serving us dainties and meats and wine? And now you’ve gone into the crazy world of the spider and moth: you have been perfected in blood. Where do these butterflies come from?—why do they flutter all about his sweaty head?—why do they swarm him and bathe him in their beauty?—are they not the soul of the earth? And the wilderness is thick with undergrowth: this land is jungle, and there is every species of wild insane noise here, every species of monster. There is no wintertime: everything blooms till it cannot stand to bloom one second more, and everything goes on blooming and driving itself insane with its wild colors and shapes. You have taken a sip of my cup: go on, do what you must: you have broken the hymen of mother earth and seen that she is all sin and chaos at her core: you have been perfected, now put your sword on your hip, and go forth: you are a wild man now, your breath is made of flame.

My eyes are blossoming sunflowers: I see a thousand pictures at once. I cannot stand to be in the light anymore. I can only stand darkness and deep earth and clouded water. Please, send me back under the earth where all is cool: I cannot blossom in this light anymore: everything is crazy with a red electricity.

I see you now. You are made of blood through and through. You are made of thick blood and you have no flesh anywhere on your body. Now you shall go out into the sea, and spread yourself out universally: this is the death ritual, for you shall become one with the mysterious sea, you shall be that sea entire, you shall travel the rivers and wander the depths forever: this is the death ritual. Take that bowl of blood, and pour it out into the sea: this is his body, this is his water, this is his flesh, this is his soul.

Here we are, cast asunder, left to dry like corpses, made to wander like ghosts. And now you’ve pulled down the curtain over your eyes: you are watched by a thousand cameras, seen by a thousand electric eyes. There is no darkness on the face of the earth: you can only escape them by dying, by becoming a shadow thing that creeps down deep into the sea.

A mad hermit who believed he was a prophet once was suspected of being a terrorist. The authorities broke down his door and he picked up a little knife to defend himself. He was shot. With a bullet in each lung, he went to his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote: "The gentle bee is crushed; he shall make no more sweetness with his toil. I will see you all very soon—you are very dear to my heart," and then he died. There was a slight tremble of the earth at the moment of his death, but no one thought this was very unusual—it was a region prone to earthquakes.

He was sent to the sweet abode, the darkness under the waters—he lived his life in the lovely irrational, and remains there still.