The Good Doctor, the Demon & I
By Crag Jensen
There upon the highest and the darkest of all the pyramids did we stand.
In the depth of that aged city - we the fortuitous spawn of the great Father Pan.
There - with nothing but the light of doubt for a guide
The good Doctor, the demon and I.
There, there within the darkness of She who would one day bare us.
There, there, there beneath the weight of Him whom some call Priapus.
Tempered and hammered then thrown from His vast and thorny thigh:
The good Doctor, the demon and I.
"Close your eyes and let it begin
Open your mind and let it all in."
So spoke the mentor that old mentor of mine.
"Show me the truth,"
I, such a fool, would then suddenly chime.
"Bring me wine, good red wine, bring it on,
Bring it now, bring it fast then sing me a song,
The good Doctor would say
As my sense of self sputtered then faded away.
Ah - for the days of the good Doctor, the demon and I.
Gone now but for the memories that always and forever reside
Like minnows in the shallows - they eddy and they glimmer; they rise and they dive.
The Doctor dead; the demon gone and me?
Adrift upon a wretched and black ocean or sea.
With not so much as a bottle or a message to
Send off to him or the demon or even to hide from the very likes of you-know-who.
Damned then be you all,
In your harried houses and your hallowed halls!
Silly apes - or so he might intone
Addicted to religion and credit and the ever-ringing telephone.
Go back, go back, go back into your stalls.
Like cattle to the slaughter - like shop-aholics to the malls.
Thrice now - has come the mighty Beast, the high Christ and Avatar of Us All.
Yet still - you believe in belief as you foam at the mouth with your faith,
The talking snake, the ancient Tree that bore the fruit that brought the "Fall."
"Obey, obey or else" the good Doctor would snidely say
As we studied Bree-sheet bera Elohim - three times, three times, three times a day.
The Law is for all - the law of the strong - the law of the brave - the law that incurs the annoying wrath of the slave.
And for those who imagine themselves clever and free
Let the law's number be known - the number ninety and three.
Far from the days of our birth have we come,
Far from the days of the dawning, the golden and glorious sun.
Through the mud and the mire of the maelstrom of mankind
I gaze back in wonder at those days so far behind.
As I remember and as I reminisce with all of my might.
That weird sort of pleasure that ended Pan's great and un-holiest of nights,
My sweet Guardian Angel comes then into view,
To assist in remembrance - to aid and to cue.
In the morning he would wander through words on a screen
Whilst old movies played in silence like some twaddle in a dream.
And at noon I would arrive with an offering unto
This god-of-a-man, this holy magus and Jew.
"The Beast had it wrong" - sometimes he would preach
"To do what thou wilt is not always within one's reach!
Yet, if you are willing to persevere and undo
You may one day break free of the many chains that now bind you."
Then for lunch we would feast on corned beef and bread
Whilst he joked about Nazis and cameras in heads.
And he would boast of his pretty cabinet of glass - so refined and replete
With angels and daggers and pretty portraits from hell he would keep.
"Back to work," he would grumble about one or a quarter to two.
"There is so little time and so, so very much to do.
Yes there are things I must show you and things to explain,
Now where are my cigs? Say - will you lend me a Marlboro again?"
"Beware of all Witches and Christians and Jews
And forget not the Muslims - for they have an appetite too.
They hunger for more bodies, more minds and souls,
For to reshape and reform you is their highest of goals."
"And remember to hate others only so much as you hate yourself."
He would jest as a billow of smoke drifted by me, the demon and nobody else.
And so were afternoons with the Doctor the demon and myself
Conversations, incantations, initiations and the making of books for to be placed upon somebody's shelf.
Yet my memory of those all-but-forgotten of days
Keeps fading and fading and fading away
Ravaged by space and tainted by time, by the rotting of brains and the shrinking barrels of vodka and wine.
So in humble honor of what once was so at hand
So alive, so puissant, so rich and so very grand.
Raise your glass and lend an ear and an eye
To the days of the good Doctor, the demon and I.
(This poem dedicated to the memory of Dr. Christopher S. Hyatt and S. Jason Black.)
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