At the crossroads we sold our souls. Like Robert Johnson like Faust. We never noticed the deal, never had a
chance to think: it came, embedded, encoded, double helix, Black & White. We know not when the debt will be called in and perhaps it never will be; an eternity of arrears, of deficit. This is the torture; our pound of flesh, the millstone and the monkey screaming from our back “You’ll never be anything but enjoy the minutes, the moments.”
Sometimes the moments last for years; challenges and finales fanning the flames of hope. Messengers are sent, trumpeting passion, fighting our corner. Talismans, Messiahs, Saints from the church on the hill thwarting ‘the damned’
in victories that resonate through time but in our limbo, our purgatory, are merely mocking spectres: howling and laughing along with the monkey on our back “You’ll never be anything.”
We are legion of course. And fight back in defiance (denial) as the occasion demands. We have crossed counties, countries and seas. We work in the bowels of earth to pay the ferryman in this second age of Hades where ‘the four horsemen’ wear genetically modified grins and wave at a world that fights and starves and eats its own tail. Wives wonder at our madness but we are not ‘the mad’ but merely the ones that sold their souls; put their dreams in the hands of a shadow.
Shapeshifter this shadow; pirate, prospector, pig sucking the life from all around them, shitting it out of the spout in his head.
He pulls at our strings, on the verge of calling us in then letting us go back to the contract work written in blood: laughing when sometimes we march to the ‘clarion call’ and then that march becomes a crawl in the mud of apathy that seeps from the feet that many kiss in praise of the crumbs of comfort: the moments the monkey told us to enjoy.
Now he has bleeding eyes. Eyes that shed only blood and contempt for the world he despises, that dared to call his bluff. He sits in ignorance, on a rock, in the dark of a cave which he leaves with his minions only to deliver spite and versions of the truth concealing his goal: to forever have our souls ‘in hock’, craving release but moving ever forward in the grips of his rule until he shape shifts once more and hands the human balance sheet to his new incarnation. ‘Devil incarnate.’
And all we want to do is see. Have the scales removed from our eyes. See the blue sky above and on the green grass, that we sold those souls for, let men come out of ‘the shadow’ and play, play up, play strong and deliver us from evil. And on that day, let a million magpies tower in to the sky. Let all be black and white. And let the monkey drop from our back like a dried scab from new skin.
Happy Fucking New Year.
The Northern Lord’s Resistance Mercenary