Backwards, the slow rhythm
And the song is called,
The Plume Serpent.
Of course, something as
obvious as that.
And it evokes other
times, troubled and
Coloured by autumn's rain,
disturbances and sleepless
nights, hitching rides --
hopeless.
And a conversation in a
café with nothing to drink
dry words and evasion,
doubts and premonition
Slowly unwinding within,
presenting themselves
open doorways or broken shells
A slow parade of followers, I saw
Blavatsky and many other
But at the end, only Crowley remained
4.3.2006
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