(no subject)
Beginning of play ‘the Martyr’
FATHER and SON in tavern, drunkenly leaning over the table and pawing at each other while trying to make themselves heard, drunken smiles on their faces.
FATHER: I am the patron of a thousand fantasies of degradation. I wear my lust like a coat of dreams: it is my lust that forms the clay feet of my sins upon which I walk like (gestures) ethereal stilts.
SON: An oyster on the seabed of our oceanic desires, it is your language that refines you, you reinvent faeces in strings of gleaming pearls. The rainbow-white teardrops in your voice were formed by the dirt-trappings from the lowest sea trench on which you towered over others; but the words fell blindly in the darkness that hung between us.
Father gets up and attempts a simple Irish dance, smiling beatifically, the son laughs sardonically and claps while the father chants:
FATHER: Tattooed on my body is the Word and it is Eve: I dance naked in the moonlight and she dances with me, I perform a miracle and my skin is hers: I perform another miracle and subdue her to less substance than my shadow ...
SON: Looking at you I can see the iconography as it will form around your features: your obsidian tongue and your amber hands will shape again in a hollow idol, and you will become that which you would destroy.
FATHER: I cannot talk but sing, and it is the song of God. I walk, and it is in the path of Faith; I stray, and form new paths. Redemption is merely the tongue with which -
SON: We curse our fathers’ black hearts -
FATHER: I shall not know that I have succeeded until you, my son,
SON: Crush the marrows of your creations …
DAWN enters.
FATHER and SON in tavern, drunkenly leaning over the table and pawing at each other while trying to make themselves heard, drunken smiles on their faces.
FATHER: I am the patron of a thousand fantasies of degradation. I wear my lust like a coat of dreams: it is my lust that forms the clay feet of my sins upon which I walk like (gestures) ethereal stilts.
SON: An oyster on the seabed of our oceanic desires, it is your language that refines you, you reinvent faeces in strings of gleaming pearls. The rainbow-white teardrops in your voice were formed by the dirt-trappings from the lowest sea trench on which you towered over others; but the words fell blindly in the darkness that hung between us.
Father gets up and attempts a simple Irish dance, smiling beatifically, the son laughs sardonically and claps while the father chants:
FATHER: Tattooed on my body is the Word and it is Eve: I dance naked in the moonlight and she dances with me, I perform a miracle and my skin is hers: I perform another miracle and subdue her to less substance than my shadow ...
SON: Looking at you I can see the iconography as it will form around your features: your obsidian tongue and your amber hands will shape again in a hollow idol, and you will become that which you would destroy.
FATHER: I cannot talk but sing, and it is the song of God. I walk, and it is in the path of Faith; I stray, and form new paths. Redemption is merely the tongue with which -
SON: We curse our fathers’ black hearts -
FATHER: I shall not know that I have succeeded until you, my son,
SON: Crush the marrows of your creations …
DAWN enters.