Up in the North and out in the cold
I howl to the Moon, brawl with birds, scud with a boom,
Whistle through the skirt of woods and never caught
Am I—the Gale of Emotions—in the time of Gloom.
He sighed me out before he was born,
Before Big Bang tolled; Great Gods polled; Goddesses had sewn
Stars on the sable soft, sable silky and sable—sealed—
Where I wander along, waiting for the Last Silent Peal.
I am the sad-ness which you hear on the window;
I am the ANGER which you see on fallen trees;
I am the ecstasy which you moan with libido;
I am the liberty which you feel across the streets;
I am the disgust which you sniff in the air;
I am the fear which you know is everywhere.
Then he summons me
To his room in Lancaster
Where a ventilator rumbles and lights flicker;
Where he sees me at last and, moaning, sucks me in:
There I whizz through Echoing Channel like a glider—
There I hear frenetic beats beat through Secret Chambers—
There I dance across the Lava of Desire by Potho’s Temple
Before the Hurricane of Heat blows me—up past Secret Chambers and Echoing Channel
I hurtle, and into the Maze of Gloom I stumble.
“Traitor!” “Dissenter!” “Adulterer!” the Guards calmly reason,
And, stooping or crouching, slowly they come to arrest me for Treason.
But I blow them all, blow them all, blow them all,
For I am the Gale, the madness, and you always call me so.