It’s the Time of the Season…
by Lex Marburger
illustration by Tadpole
This is my season. Autumn, the time of fading, of dying. A Scorpio, my thoughts drift to the latter part of the life/death cycle and all that comes with it. And how can the season be consecrated? How can I honor the rending of Dionysus, the fading of the Wood? I consume the holy liquid of fire, water in its most potent form, the prolonged tending of the grain and the grape. A yawning abyss opens before me, and I go hang gliding. Alcohol pulls me down into a timeless state, oblivious to my worldly obligations, the commitments made to the outside. Alone, I wallow in my own reality, my thoughts become tangible, and I drift along faded halls of introspection, the light before me, the darkness supporting me.
Life knows a different name. In the circular society that accommodates my playfully teasing nymphs and their presence, I am given unto Pan and his satyrs, for the dead age is upon us. The leaves, the shells, praise the immortal bottle as a savior, and tests their muscles. Energy is abundant and of color and Fall. The air tightens, the world is tearing branches and trees, overcharging emotions, overpowering in its wind storms; cast aloft among the sylphs until the being is ripped loose from its mooring as timelessness, only to cast a shadow upon his own life.
Commit further atrocities to yourself. Can the drunk see Heaven? The sinners claim, “To stop and think is to cast yourself into the abyss,” to reflect morbidly, and lidded eyes open wider, see clearly the aimlessness and the pointed blade of life, the realm of reality. The Sober shuffle off to their jobs and their typicalities. Half in her coolness, sucking us into inspiration, pulling us into helpless dancing, a glass of enveloping age, the season traps us in her molasses murky clutches, electrifying us with one hand, a table beneath our feet.
Will overpowers the best. Be your savior and the conquest’s limbs. All projections are the power of Aphrodite, intended. . . Longing is surpassed, dwelling on the imagined. See the Venus, and bathe, be achieved through the bottle, your consummation. A physical shape envelops you and the floating palace through the Id, the Id. . . To be alone. . . Both can and shall become true in the pleasures of inebriation. Let the stall approach, not the sacrament. The autumn of flesh is all in the manifest crowd and the Id, called down by the urge to be faithfully willing. Relentless lusts, never conscientious imbibing.
Any sensation becomes a pleasurable one, and the ability to exchange emotion and power with another becomes a fix of forever, getting shot up only thrice in a lifetime, desperately seeking the dealer, clad in goatskins, pulling you deeper into yourself to visit the outcome of the season… The final and rebirthing coldness, the sight of a new reality approaching with the sun’s reincarnation, death as a doorway to the next whirlwind affair.
(Needs some “Quiet Time”)
(Needs professional help)
(Could use a good blowjob)
(Wants another drink)
(???)
