You Are Here...

• Home
• VASCHE VEXVELT
• A Dragon Makes Its Own Jokes

Dragon taking The Lady out for Dinner?
NO! The Dragon is saving The Lady from a Fate worse than Death:
Boredom!
The Lady wants to be cheered and be entertained. Wants to laugh and forget. Illustration: Tim White.

Once upon a time in a magic kingdom there was a special court with special knights who fought dragons. Secret Dragons.

One day, one of the knights grew weary.

He threw down his shield, unbuckled his armour and cried out:
“Enough! I will not be pushed –filed – indexed – stamped – briefed – debriefed – or numbered!”

The other knights whispered to each other ; “did he see something in the land of dragons? … does he know some thing we do not?…perhaps he breathed dragon fumes – and became a dragon?…

So it came to pass that the errant knight was locked up in a tower and visited [every day?], regularly by a courtier called “Number Two”. And with every new visit, “Number Two” grew a new face and a new body.

Mean Twos. Lean Twos. “WE have the means” Twos. Keen Twos. Clean Twos. “God Save The Queen” Twos.

Each different. Each the Same. Two faced.

And Darkness Came to The Kingdom

Clouds of suspicion settled over the land and the Dragons were found in the most unlikely places.
Hiding in beds, in cabinets, in bars, on the street, on the beach.
Some were even found working as television news anchor men.

A terrible battle was pitched. The true knights shining brightly. Their standards held high were the first to go.
And soon a proclamation was trumpeted all thru the land ;

“The war is over - We have prevailed”
But know one could say who were the victors -
The Knights?
The Dragons?
?

Between Union and Oblivion

"Hoy en mi ventana brilla el sol
Today the sun shines in my window

Y el corazón
And the heart

Se pone triste contemplando la ciudad
It gets sad contemplating the city

Porque te vas
Because you are leaving . . .

"Like the Plague entering a village on the bony spine of the Serpent, I will I spend my life remembering and relearning what I once knew? I count on you, Woman of Mine, to remember what I will forget – on being born in your arms. . .

Can it be that Sin has a price? Then I prefer you to learn the truth from me personally. The only thing I ever did wrong was to love you from a distance. Which amounts to nothing more than worship. I worshipped you.

Hey? I was making love with you so much – it was worship. So much that at once your thought was: Moreno is a sex fiend…but if I stopped for three nights – you thought Moreno was having an affair somewhere, crazy puta to break a guitar on my neck, out of jealousy? or pull out a gun? Or even worse, accuse me of infidelity?

And not wanting to believe that I loved you so much, so much, that even now you cannot forget me and what I loved, and what a pestilence you are still in my life – because of loving me? Even after all these years of us all being apart. Each the same. Jealousy Green.

Not me you love – but being in love with being in love. . .  All Women should be loved, and In Love. Or so I believe. That’s why I love all of this and all of you so much. I am in the privilege of you few witches, who care and still think that they own me as their own. Call upon me as their own as if we are still married or shackled together. Selfish as the day I (or you) went missing…You cannot help yourself. Nor can I help you.

I Loved You for No Other Reason Than That You Are A Woman:

“not even special”, as you were so quick to point out, even after a 3 months of Die-Vorce. Two divorces! Three if you count being apart all these years and married to different people while we ourselves remained un-divorced. That you think you are so “special’,  that I should not treat some one as I treat the one I love. 

We-e-e-el-l-l-? I got this to say to you: When I was loving you – what were you doing? If you love me as you still claim. What are you doing half way round the planet? And not even a Holy Cow at that. Minchia! You’re either a bad liar or a good actress at bad lying.

I never believed in you. I believed in what I could do with you.Remember I am an artist and you are my material. I painted a picture out of you. 
Would you like to see your infidelity to your own self writ large. I can paint a bigger picture of my infidelity to my self than I can of my infidelity to you. At least, when I was cheating on you I truly loved my mistresses.

One secret I give away. Blonde. Cuts it down to three people. Three of you. You will all know who you might be by the end of this story it - will all be clear>

“As I treat, so I love the one I am with.
Tonight this one - tomorrow that one - But Always You
Mi Carnalita
Sanguina por me sanguina”–
blood of My blood, eyes of my eyes: ears of my ears: corazon espinata –
Eo tu ciero Fuderamo tua! My little corner of heaven. My little conha of heaven

As I did before you. After you. And will do when your name is dust only - because the thing you will miss, in all of this is that I Did It For Me Because I Am Special - even to you.

You are Special - because I love/d you and you always will be until my last breath flees my lungs. . . And it will flee with your name upon my lips,

Conchita – aaaaaa . . . . a . . . . a . . . . aaaaaaaaaaaaaa. . .

Because I Made It So

By scheme, plot and design. I seduced you . . . seduced you into seducing me.  Created the world that “We” wanted. The hedonistic eroticism of our life style was engineered by me. Our nights out on the town, our cuisine, the décor of our houses, our rampant sexual athletic marathons and the over-heated “quickies”, your subtly changing wardrobe (until It suited my desire for how I wanted you to dress, remember?

I used the bed to re-program your personality, release the suppressed Isis in you. Do you remember the hit on the radio: “I’m your Venus / I’m your Fire / Your hearts desire” Goddess on a Mountain Top I painted you. Your alien spirit painted this -

Like a kind of magic. You danced only for me.  God knows you must have danced for other men since, you’re no pussy. But I do know that you were none of this before me. You were still innocent. I took your innocence away, you think? Not at all. I opened your mind to possibilities. . .
I found you before you found yourself. I loved you before you loved yourself. To be sure, that has been the modus operandi of my seduction of you.

Close your eyes while I sing this lullaby. The silence will be broken now, with these tears of another time. Every one can see you are not a child any more

I trained you. Yet I was not your master. I manipulated you with symbols. As old as The Snake:

I have been thru’ all of you and the entire spectrum of passion to reproduce the the feeling of you-  metaphorically speaking - seeking the bright elusive butterfly of morning.  The one of my dreams that I allowed to fly out of my hand. The one that has lit upon so many flowers in its hungry quest - but not long enough upon mine own.
Not long enough. . .

The butterfly that resides daily between your thighs.  The one that nightly spreads its glistening, silky wings to the light of the stars - to be transfixed by ecstasy till sunrise. There it is all. Oranges. Peaches. Starfish. Afternoon sunlight. Bath oil. New mown grass. Black hair. Smell of omelette in the morning. Red candles. Pencil drawings. Trigger events of you. A point in time. . . so far away, yet as real as yesterday

You will recall the tree outside your bed room window? I dream of it often. Some times out side another building. Perhaps by a river.
The same tree and the same lawn. And, although the tree is gone - the memory persists.

“Destiny is something to be Mastered”
Donna told Me

The only Bolt of Lightning that could strike us would be your orgasm.
We were and still are, strong.
A song then? " I want to make it with you. . . " And then your orgasms flowed like a river, tears fell like the rain, your passion flooded me, bathed me. Washed me.

Symbols don’t grow on symbols. Symbols grow on Reality.

Button? Button! Who’s Got the Button?

Here she is smearing her fingertips all over my blue Egyptian glass. Asking whose lips drank from it before? Porra! No decency. . .
Ah button!.
>Clik<

Now Image this, so sleek, slick, and alway sin control, she arrives and, I am Just The Man!

To you: I sat across the table from you at La Perla. We drink a very expensive French Champagne by candle light. As you hold my hand and tell me you have known me these last four thousand years and that our souls are for ever entwined. I have the Jitterbug Perfume from the last witch before you. I should believe you? And, I knew you were lying and leaving.

I gave you 2 years. It was one year . . . Ha Ha Ha . . . my Scorpio Peligrosa.

And you? You told me one Sunday after a long cocaine and heavy sex binge: “I would rather live only this one life time with you than a thousand lifetimes. . . without you”.  and look, we have each lived a thousand lives, since we said “arrividerci” and you still come back to me… And not even with the decent haunting as a ghost of memory and time past.

But like a Butterfly on some pheromone trail - once a month, or every year. Without failing us. When I hear your voice I surrender. . . Butterfly. . .  the tragedies of your adultery with me will pursue you if you do not leave me alone. The next time you want to slip down on a jeraboam of champagne I can give you a tip about broken glass. Ho ho you recall?

Well I will tell you this: There is no order here.  The sequences of time have been blurred by your similarities to each other. I mean, you have to realize that there were days when I was with you, I did not immediately have your name come to mind, so much were you like one or the other.

So I suppose you could say that in the same fashion that a clock does not contain time, this book contains no reality, while it measures reality as a clock measures time.  These moments are truly as I remember them: flow of consciousness, you could say- Moments, forever vital and frozen – like tears - in rain.

There are very few people who realise what God would make of them if they abandoned themselves into His hands, and let themselves be formed by His grace-
St. Ignatius Loyola

And Now I am in the place where it all began

The tears wash like a river, the rain away

It is at once exquisite and unbearable. The memory...memories are as clear as light... unbearable, because I wish more than anything that I could have written this story with you. There is no pain, only a sublime and endless yearning for the “dreamed-to-have-become-as-history”

This place resounds with the singing spirits of all of us, and, with your spirit - I can pick it out. Our childhood laughter. laughter and your voice, so mellifuous - like water over rocks in a summer stream. Smoothe.

I sit here in the setting sun - watching her.
> Watching . . .

NEXT >> Her Mouth. What A Mouth