As I readjust my cumber-
Band I know I cannot slumber
Marred my necktie – my chin, under – by this… uncanny-aiming Lor.
Sun of Ivis, nephyw of Stramn, pouring drams of lager balm
I would pay in drams and Seka
Lumber to restore. my tie – to match it… as it was before.
Farrival tossed fitfully –
What is this?
It’s half past four.
–then resumed the restive dreams
he would ignore.
Now, in his throne room, the stage that befit him like a monarch his crown, stands Farrival: Thronged!
Couturiers and haberdashers promised unripped seams. A stain-resistant – nay, a stain free – and long life.
‘Till one haggard anomaly approached to stitch dissonant hymn.
The clothiers shall never vanquishéd be
Until a great Burning Wood to the Spined Lake shall return.
Farrival saw, in that dreamlike and inconstant manner, a body of water in streams.
It did surround him as he seemed
to drown and did succor him, whispering Come, lady, die to live. This wedding day
perhaps is but prolonged.
Then as he watched, the lake transmogrified
from water and then into spines
into feathers, then to pen.
Farrival screamed.
And the haggard then: This fate you must endure!
You must not skirt it!
as before.
Now strutting and fretting, half-mad, in the stage, Farrival: alone
raved.
Hem all the skirts then! And bring me more cravats! Let them fly, all!
Till a burning wood quench this watery pen?!?
My clothes cannot taint nor be smeared!
But if you stain me, do I not dye?
If I die, shall I not resplend?
From off-stage,
Gadbois and Gadbois and Gadbois – that thrice be-fucked Gadbois! – all fed Farrival lines
that his mind
somehow had not saved
…
…
Before the legend
Before the glory.
The Ferryman’s dream foretold the story:
“Five will ride the Roaringburn!
But only four will e’er return!”
Farrival startled awake, gasping
To breath so hard he started rasping
Well-trained actor’s mind still grasping
Snatched the last line back from dream’s receding shore.
“Roaringburn? No, that stanza, I think, unrelated and bears no relation to what has come before.
Good meter, though.
Or?”
He reached down to open a side table drawer.
Nestled, unstained, were one hundred and seventy-five traveling cravats.
Those dearest of those that remained.
“Or! Perhaps that stanza truly meant
By weirdly vague presentiments
That I should… name… my vestments?”
He stroked them to offer comfort
E’en as tears welled in the orbs
That were his eyes.
One cravat, a scarlet that flashed even in the dark night, fell askew.
“Roaringburn,” tremulously, “does that suit you?”
He slammed the drawer shut.
“Knowing food stains, rips, and dust,
Wouldst thou bind thy heart to rust
Or must you stain with some knave’s gore?”
Farrival cried himself awake.
Then later at the shops.
“I’ll buy ten more.”