binukar
Delapsus Angelus
My life changed the day I saw three tiny blue-winged creatures dancing on the head of a pin. The damn thing had pricked the tip of my finger. A drop of blood welled up and my heart filled with a strange fear.
The novices wouldn't believe me. "Get some fresh air, Gabriel," they said before scaling the seminary's walls. The night was long.
They sang: Dear Father weird/Never grow a beard/We like your ass bared.
I was snared.
In the library silence was sepulchral. I felt at home.
I studied angelology, traced their gamboling motifs in the art of Donatello and Raphael, wrote hymns in praise of their crystal crowns: it was their hierarchy that owned me.
They revealed to me in dreams as sparkling little clouds of gold and silver dust. They talked to me through the heretic whisper of their wings - of God and his tyranny.
Sometimes they showed up in corporal masquerades - sweet talking, fashionable Sunday church kids, flaunting affluence.
I signed a pact. I kept a log of all revelations: the anatomy of their form and the transcripts of their golden tongue.
For 30 years they thought I was a harmless crank. Then they found out what I thought of despots and God. The rumour mills began to work. First in a distant parish, whose vicar harboured a grudge against me. And later across the whole diocese.
At the church they said things behind my back: that I was turning senile and have dropped the words God, glory and mercy while saying the holy mass.
They accused me of taking the altar boys and the choir girls to the sacristy in the pretext of teaching them the significance of liturgical colours and abusing them.
When the cops failed to get statements from the kids that would nail me as a pervert they raided my study. They took away my notebooks and the Kirlian photographs of cute looking kids with flaming red and gold auras over their heads.
They had my writings examined by a police psychologist who had read too much Freud. He found that I had circled in red, the names of children who narrated recurring dreams about flying and falling from great heights. Loaded with sex, some pervert of high pedigree, the report said.
They hired a critic to sniff around my poetry:
I am the angel who rides the black tide/the jackal in search of lamb's hide.
Thoroughly unchristian. Reflective of a moral vaccum: he theorized. It had words which rhymed with Jekyll and Hyde, shedding light into my double life.
You don't need two coffins when you die.
You need a shining pinhead.
Look, can't you see. Three lovely cherubs perform the whirling dance for me. Nonstop. Rising small clouds of gold and silver dust.
It fills the wedge between my heart: two continents of night.
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My life changed the day I saw three tiny blue-winged creatures dancing on the head of a pin. The damn thing had pricked the tip of my finger. A drop of blood welled up and my heart filled with a strange fear.
The novices wouldn't believe me. "Get some fresh air, Gabriel," they said before scaling the seminary's walls. The night was long.
They sang: Dear Father weird/Never grow a beard/We like your ass bared.
I was snared.
In the library silence was sepulchral. I felt at home.
I studied angelology, traced their gamboling motifs in the art of Donatello and Raphael, wrote hymns in praise of their crystal crowns: it was their hierarchy that owned me.
They revealed to me in dreams as sparkling little clouds of gold and silver dust. They talked to me through the heretic whisper of their wings - of God and his tyranny.
Sometimes they showed up in corporal masquerades - sweet talking, fashionable Sunday church kids, flaunting affluence.
I signed a pact. I kept a log of all revelations: the anatomy of their form and the transcripts of their golden tongue.
For 30 years they thought I was a harmless crank. Then they found out what I thought of despots and God. The rumour mills began to work. First in a distant parish, whose vicar harboured a grudge against me. And later across the whole diocese.
At the church they said things behind my back: that I was turning senile and have dropped the words God, glory and mercy while saying the holy mass.
They accused me of taking the altar boys and the choir girls to the sacristy in the pretext of teaching them the significance of liturgical colours and abusing them.
When the cops failed to get statements from the kids that would nail me as a pervert they raided my study. They took away my notebooks and the Kirlian photographs of cute looking kids with flaming red and gold auras over their heads.
They had my writings examined by a police psychologist who had read too much Freud. He found that I had circled in red, the names of children who narrated recurring dreams about flying and falling from great heights. Loaded with sex, some pervert of high pedigree, the report said.
They hired a critic to sniff around my poetry:
I am the angel who rides the black tide/the jackal in search of lamb's hide.
Thoroughly unchristian. Reflective of a moral vaccum: he theorized. It had words which rhymed with Jekyll and Hyde, shedding light into my double life.
You don't need two coffins when you die.
You need a shining pinhead.
Look, can't you see. Three lovely cherubs perform the whirling dance for me. Nonstop. Rising small clouds of gold and silver dust.
It fills the wedge between my heart: two continents of night.
Poll Rate this entry