I still remember stark-naked men and women, who, from time to time, with excruciating yells, leapt to their feet, shaking their heads backwards and forwards, the women with loosened locks falling in black disorder about their heaving, shaking breasts. A voice would then cry out in deepest scorn the sonorous Brythonic verse; “Let their desires be satisfied.” And there would be a perfect orgy of bestiality. The outer circle absorbed the essence of murdered animals: the inner absorbed them: from the highest to the lowest in the universe one lived by sacrificing something. It was fair according to this cult that Godhead should demand a sacrifice. In the sacrifice of others alone lay his godhead. What is to be the end?
Month: February 2018
I would often lie in the arms of the Bard in my Taylor Wimpey luxury flat in The Denizen. I remember the first time in Golden Lane with my face pressed against his beard smelling of incense and sandalwood, when he bade me — “Remember”; and I remembered. I dreamed I was a valley boy bathing in the cool, limpid waters of the Afon Taf: and he was a girl whom I had seduced to my pleasure on the river-shore, whilst the bells of a Druid grove called me in vain to my twilight prayers. I came to my senses, I remember, this time, with a strange, new feeling of power. Was that girl really the Bard? The girl had been so humble, so yielding, so weak; and after possession I had been so utterly indifferent. Was there, indeed, Nemesis in man’s allotted fate?
Williams feared that I knew much and where there is fear, hatred comes automatically. Hatred, at least, holds interest. Williams knew that I had learned why his lips were black and that his youth would remain as long as another woman gave him the glands of youth freshly distilled from her living body. For this is what they want of women: this is their great secret. I have written to warn those who like me, stirred by the unusual, have fallen at the feet of powerful men with strange powers, unbound by the conventions and without the compassion of ordinary mortals.
Our hosts often gave me Dà Mhìle, Seaweed Gin, and though the Bard lapped it up greedily with much smacking of lips, I could not touch it. The mere idea of gin made me feel very sick. When I asked for beer, instead of gin, there was much laughter on all sides. But after being mercilessly ribbed I'd be handed a bottle of Tiny Rebel, Cwtch, which was brewed in the Bard's home town of Newport. The Bard made a sermon on my preferring beer to Dà Mhìle, the essence of Wales, comparing my attitude to that of the worldly man who not having found the essence of life — spirituality — asked for the inferior part. Was he serious? Was he sincere?