§ the ovist

This is my egg.
It gleams with a light that is nacreous and cool.
This my egg,
My beloved egg.
Couched in the palm of my hand,
Boiling with potential,
Rife with theopneustic emanations,
And potencies unknown in nature.

Who cannot sense its fierce primeval presence,
That permeates to the core of our world,
That diffuses to the limits of our galaxy,
On a wave of sparkling orgones?

This is my egg, eldritch and hallowed,
And I must guard it covetously,
For if any mind, born of this Earth or beyond.
Were to learn its secret destiny,
then it would succumb in the passing of an instant,
And take desperate flight,
For the sanctuary of gibbering madness.

My egg is fundamental and sacrosanct,
Relevant to all things, yet related to none.
It is Holy to all things Holy.
And Blasphemous to all,
That is Blasphemous.

My egg is blind to the march of aeons,
Yet is a banner for change in a seething universe.
It is an egg that folds,
Smoothly, solidly,
Into the continuum of space, time and love.

In a certain light it smoulders with a queer luminescence.
And it casts a devouring shadow.

This is my egg,
And it is faultless.
No instrument of human manufacture,
No material of sublunary provenance,
Will pierce the esoteric tension of its shell -
Composed in equal parts,
Of diabolic pandemonium,
And the arcanum of Hierophantic Flux.

There are those who immerse themselves,
In the study of the mysterious unknown;
Who lose themselves,
In the Hyrcynian Woods of Conspiracy.
These are single-minded men,
Who concentrate their wisdom,
On The Vegetable Lamb, the Voynich Manuscript,
Or the enigmatic Disc of Phaistos.
These men …
Know nothing of my egg.

Yet, at some dark hour,
When the sky is congested with sinistrous intent,
A dire wind howling at the eaves,
Then utterable thoughts may be uttered.
And some, cowled, deep in their books,
Will pause at the phrasing of a footnote,
At a scratch in the margin of a battered incunabulum,
And – in a moment of insane conjecture -
May dare to propose,
That something - something like my egg,
Lies veiled upon this Earth.

Mathematicians from the elite academies,
Versed in esoteric calculus and the reckoning of fluxions,
Do whisper of tesseracts and corpuscles
And venture to their anxious colleagues,
That in order to complete the testimony of science,
An egg,
Such as mine,
(My egg).
Must surely have been enthroned from the beginning,
At the Cornerstone of Time.

My egg.
Oh, my egg.
My egg encompasses the futurity of Man.
It is a mirror of the eternal absolute.
It is an egg of the first water.

Need I remind you,
That it is greater than the Egg of Mercurius,
In its unspeakable splendour,
Which is said to have spawned
A prescient green homunculus?

Superior by far it is,
To the membranous Egg of Xenoperion,
Which begat in its possessor,
The abilities to read wisdom from the Comet,
To quicken and manipulate ectoplasm,
And to fire coloured gases from the mouth.

And yes, it is mightier still,
Than the Egg of the Master Scarabite,
Unearthed from the abominated ruins of ancient Ubar,
Which, installed upon a monstrous staff,
Of haunted reptile bone,
Drove an army of mindless scarabs,
To victory after victory in prehistoric Mesopotamia.

My egg …
Resting, apparently inert,
In my trembling hand.

A quiet, white thing.
An unassuming thing,
Of monstrous potential and infinite benevolence,
That is said to have driven the limpid hearts of virgins
To thoughts of self-pollution,
To acts of spectacular prurience,
To crimes of relentless, howling erotomania.

In moments of jocularity,
I laugh to think of my egg,
beleaguering the instruments of Nobel Laureates.
And I dream of it, sometimes,
Suspended in the firmament,
Heralded by angels,
Wreathed in sunbeams

My egg …
Oh, my egg …
What can I say about my egg,
In its harrowing perfection?
Its curves are the curves of nature,
In infinite reiteration.

The dragonfly wing,
The falcon’s beak,
The woman’s hip,
The desert dune,
In infinite reiteration.

The bead of sweat,
The nucleus,
The apricot and her cloven pip,
The amoeba,

The assassin and the sweep of her blade,
In infinite reiteration.

*

I've been a little quiet over the last few days, but by no means inactive. I've had my head to the grindstone writing an article on opiophobia [you guessed it - 'fear of opiates' - though I think I've pushed the meaning of the term a little] for the VIVAIDS magazine 'Whack'. I hoped it would be short and sweet but, as per usual, it turned into a monster of 3.5 thousand words. Look out for it, if you've ever wondered why the hell our society has such a bee in its bonnet over drugs. It's full of nice, meaty stuff.

What lies above, 'The Ovist', is a taste from the next White Noise Carousel album.

By the way, this is the one hundreth post on Sails of Oblivion. Thank you all, particularly the usual subjects, [you know who you are]. This blog is one of the most fruitful and rewarding things I've done in a long time.

Lastly, for parents of a Lovecraftian persuasion, here is an image entitled Where The Great Old Ones Are.

Thanks to Monster Brains for unearthing this. The original by tore natkinson [?] can be found at Deviant Art, and he'll put it on a tee-shirt for you, if you're so inclined.