As I have written earlier, the "Arrogant Prophecies" descends deeper and deeper into nightmare vision. However, it was the express intention of the unknown poet of the Third Galaxy to resolve this poem cycle with light and hope for a better day. Personally, I don't think he was exactly successful in this regard. However, for what it's worth, today's installment does contain a small glint of sunlight.
The author's own notes pretty much clarify the poem. However, his use of the term "bloody crutch" requires some clarification. Although it may be hard for people in our world to grasp it, the Peelers had the strangest idea about the death of the Holy Idaho. According to their orthodox theology, the Great Potato had actually commanded the death of his "Only Sprouted Spud" as a sacrifice to wash away the evil deeds of human kind in the Third galaxy!
I know how ridiculous this sounds but it harks back the to the general misunderstanding of the meaning of the story of Broken Wing and Laughing boy. Broken Wing, as you recall was taken with the insane idea that the Almighty Spud had commanded him to cut the throat his only son and burn the corpse as a sacrifice to the Eternal. That story had a happy ending. The story of the Idaho did not.
The Thorn of Gold is a Burning Wind____________________________________
The very winds hold their breath
while those who trade in slaves are doing their awful best.
They're a clutch of holes who preach to us
that all the things we think we want to do – we MUST!
That's such a funny thing to say
on such a quietly peaceful summer day!
Sometimes it is the strangest things
that turn your life about and make the soul sing.
Perhaps I am, as it's been said,
a wusssy, thinking to walk where better blood's been bled.
Their laughter burns like thorns into the night,
as I write these lines, as I try to get them right.
Angels do as they are told,
but human love is made of finely-hammered gold.
The priceless pearl remains untouched
until the cripple throws away his bloody crutch!
"...such a quietly peaceful summer day" – the "calm before the storm" is a theme common to most literature about disasters and not just the apocalyptic. The point here is that, up until the time the toilet flushes and holy shit starts to roar down the tube, everything is just fine -- that is, in those parts of the world under the control of the Supreme Hole.
Whatever it is that is coming (and I assure you, I neither do, nor want to know!) it will come on a sudden, seemingly out of the blue. There is really no reason to try to figure it out. It is not a divine screenplay unfolding – one might as well try to calculate the path of a bolt of lightning. The coming events are the confluence of a thousand million wills expressed in our daily lives. They press the fabric of reality, like waves on a dike or magma against a plug in a caldera.
Our only hope is that, by some sweet chance, enough of the dreamers suddenly awake -- but what will it take? I shudder to think of what it could be!