Pyre of Myself
Gently stack the corded wood together on the hilltop
It has dried all Summer long
Fit it cunningly like a dry-stone wall
The wind must whoosh through it
When the flames take
Prepare yourself
Pray and fast
Keep vigil all the night
Bathe in the dew
Before the mist is off the valley
Before the Sun is up
Say your goodbyes
They are looking on
The kindly ones
How they feasted and fêted you
How they wept when you told them you were the one
How secretly they were glad to see
The shadow pass them over
Forget them now
They know not what they do
Divest yourself
Cut the cords
Don the homespun robe
The belt of rope
The garland of flowers
Surrender
At sunset begin to climb the path
The slow golden light casting your shadow long
Still your mind as you ascend
You have made your choice
You have left them all behind
No one shall witness this
No one will tell this tale
Or comfort you with quiet singing of hymns
As the flames lick upwards
From the hilltop you can see the sweep
Of landscape patchwork all the way to the sea
The clouds trail and tumble
The last light is glorious
Up here the air seems vaster
The cool draught of it in your lungs
The red sun burning on the horizon
The wheeling bird above
The wind in the grass
The cairn of stones brought one by one since forever
The pyre is cunningly assembled
Each log made of compacted dreams and acts
Of days without end
Of nights without sleep
Of the smell of long-lost lovers lingering in the sheets
Of stacks of papers covered in close black writing
Of unread books
Of unsung heroic deeds
Of untaken paths
Of unspoken words
Of victories unwon
Here is flint and tinder
The spark catches
From that you light a torch
The light is leaking from the sky
Evening sweeping over
Shades of blue and grey
Soft sadness at the close of day
All of the melancholy evenings
The bright dawns
The lazy afternoons
All consuming all consumed
It will be soon
You go up the steps torch held high
A crackling flame whipping in the wind
And there upon the dais
You turn to the sky
And shout defiance at all the gods
You take their names in vain
You weep for what you’ve lost
You utter obscenities
Blasphemies
You declare yourself a heretic an apostate
You confess to all the sins there are
And fling it in their face
Say you’d do it all again
You thrust the torch into the depths of the pyre
And climbing up you lay your body down
This is something you must do alone
For in giving yourself to the fire
You become a sacrifice of yourself to yourself
This is done in honour of no-one
You are not your father’s only son
You leave nothing no blood no wealth
You die for nothing wash away no sins
The flames blossom and lick up around your sides
The smoke billows tears stream from your eyes
The flame without mirrors the fire within
Consummation devoutly to be wished
A beacon-fire apotheosis bliss
ANTON MERRILL
He comes from a family of ridiculous over-achievers, and gladly fulfils the role of black sheep. A true Renaissance man, he has dabbled in being an impresario, a Svengali, a rabble-rouser, a guru, a rock-star, a tramp, a prophet. He has been a star of stage and screen. He has whipped the crowd into a frenzy.
A scholarship to study screenwriting at Berkeley in California was combined with a brief flirtation with Hollywood, but Hollywood was found sadly lacking. Several years of vagabondage followed, with spells in Paris, Edinburgh, Budapest, Barcelona, Prague, Svalbard, New Mexico, Malawi, Ramallah, and Marrakesh. He currently lives between Berlin and Paris, writing on culture and society for a variety of small-press journals and radical websites. His major work, The Key to All Mythologies, completed in his mid-twenties, is now sadly out of print.
