Mentioning Eden only makes it worse.
Even a monster has his vanity.
I left the other man his life intact.
I didn’t steal a thing, not even her.
Don’t think I wasn’t tempted, but why pack
All of the beautiful things you can’t take with you?
My new style, as you see, is minimal.”
“How can you talk that way about your wife?
This is no time for striking clever poses.”
“You seem surprised to find me eloquent.
Being well-spoken is all I have left.
I want to make this conversation matter.
We’ll never have a chance to speak again.”
“Not if you end up staying here!” I cried.
“I’m glad, “he said, “to hear you speak of endings.
My downfall makes a very shabby story.
Reality has made a botch of it.
First up, then down — no nuance, no panache,
In short, no style. After playing the prince,
I find it difficult to be recast
As Caliban for my farewell performance.
I could endure this suffering or worse
If I could end as something other than
An object of intolerable pity.
The ending is what gives a story meaning.
So let me start my new and last career—
The editor who will revise this story.
If I’m compelled to play the monster’s role,
Then let the monster have his grand finale.
Give me a death scene and a juicy speech,
Not a morphine drip in a hospice bed,
Nor a last whimper to a paid attendant.
Report whatever details you see fit.
It might be easier for everyone
To term this denouement an accident.
For me, it is enough that you bear witness.
You always understood my sense of style.”
He took a book of matches from his pocket.
Struck one. It flamed. He dropped it on the floor.
The fuel-soaked papers at his feet took fire.
“You’d better go,” he said. I backed away.
The inferno had been carefully devised.
The blaze reached out in lines across the room.
As the fire spread, the flames were beautiful.
VI.
“No one knows how the accident occurred.
It happened after I left,” I told Eden.
We sat on an immaculate divan
Beneath a David Hockney Swimming Pool.
The windows gave a view of Central Park.
“Tom and I talked about his situation.
He said that he was sorry you had suffered.
He had almost decided to come home.
As I walked out, he stopped me for a moment.
He made me promise I would visit you.”
VI. SONGS
THE COUNTRY WIFE
She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
Following their voices on the breeze,
She makes her way. Through the dark trees
The distant stars are all she sees.
They cannot light the way she’s gone.
She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
She cannot see the winds that break
The night reflected on the lake
But knows they motion for her sake.
These are the choices they have brought her:
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
SONG FOR THE END OF TIME
The hanged man laughs by the garden wall,
And the hands of the clock have stopped at the hour.
The cathedral angels are starting to fall,
And the bells ring themselves in the gothic tower.
Lock up your money and go bolt the door,
And don’t dare look yourself in the eye.
Pray on your knees or cry on the floor
Or stare at the stars as they fall from the sky.
You may say that you’re sorry for all that you’ve done,
You may swear on your honor and protest with tears,
But the moon is burning under the sun,
And nothing you do will stop what appears.
THE ARCHBISHOP
For a famous critic
O do not disturb the Archbishop,
Asleep in his ivory chair.
You must send all the workers away,
Though the church is in need of repair.
His Reverence is tired from preaching
To the halt, and the lame, and the blind.
Their spiritual needs are unsubtle,
Their notions of God unrefined.
The Lord washed the feet of His servants.
“The first shall be last,” He advised.
The Archbishop’s edition of Matthew
Has that troublesome passage revised.
The Archbishop declines to wear glasses,
So his sense of the world grows dim.
He thinks that the crowds at Masses
Have gathered in honor of him.
In the crypt of the limestone cathedral
A friar recopies St. Mark,
A nun serves stew to a novice,
A choirboy sobs in the dark.
While high in the chancery office
His Reverence studies the glass,
Wondering which of his vestments
Would look best at Palm Sunday Mass.
The saints in their weather-stained niches
Weep as the Vespers are read,
And the beggars sleep on the church steps,
And the orphans retire unfed.
On Easter the Lord is arisen
While the Archbishop breakfasts in bed,
And the humble shall find resurrection,
And the dead shall lie down with the dead.
NOSFERATU’S SERENADE
I am the image that darkens your glass,
The shadow that falls wherever you pass.
I am the dream you cannot forget,
The face you remember without having met.
I am the truth that must not be spoken,
The midnight vow that cannot be broken.
I am the bell that tolls out the hours.
I am the fire that warms and devours.
I am the hunger that you have denied,
The ache of desire piercing your side.
I am the sin you have never confessed,
The forbidden hand caressing your breast.
You’ve heard me inside you speak in your dreams,
Sigh in the ocean, whisper in streams.
I am the future you crave and you fear.
You know what I bring. Now I am here.
(From Nosferatu)
MAD SONG
I sailed a ship
In the storm-wracked sea,
And all were drowned
Except for me.
I swam all night
Through death-cold waves
Till my shipmates called
From their sunken graves,
A lucky life for you, lad, a lucky life for you!
I fought through wars
In a barren land
Till none were left
Of my rugged band.
On a field of dead
Only I stood free.
Then a blind crow laughed
From a blasted tree,
A lucky life for you, lad, a lucky life for you!
I scaled a mountain
Of cold sharp stone.
The others fell,
And I climbed alone.
When I reached the top,
The winds were wild,