THE PURPLE DRAGON
Missive #28 - Transcribed Poetic Dictation with Vision Fragments
[This missive was probably the most challenging to birth yet, and arrived in more fragmentation than any other. I usually can follow the thread(s) of received dictations and visions pretty well as I receive them, or at least after transcribing them. The Purple Dragon challenges me. There is something weird (wyrd) at play here. My visions of this purple dragon these past few days however were profoundly powerful, especially their 12-faceted, 7-pointed star eyes, like red-purple-blue tourmaline crystals. Their constant shape-shifting, fractaling in and out of itself, out of everywhere and into everything, leaving wispy trails of violet smoke, hazy afterimages and scintillations. I’m not sure exactly what else to say. We have made it through the Feast of St. Andrew, into what is considered the start of winter in the Carpathians. We are listening to the wolves on the wind, and the wolves inside. I do not know what this dragon needs of us at this juncture, but I am riding its wave. All aboard, and let us see just where The Purple Dragon takes us.
Personally, I recommend reading alongside the recitation for this piece, as some of the lines and word orders are a bit confusing to my eyes, and listening made it easier for me to follow the cadence without getting stuck.] Received 11/29 - 12/1/2023 | Evening of 29th through afternoon of 1st
Listen to the Recitation:
THE PURPLE DRAGON
We are familiar with red dragons, yellow dragons
White dragons and black dragons. These four
Fill our lore and legendaria. Sing to us of the
Purple Dragon, a myth among myth, in disguise
Or out of reach, beneath our nose, myrh myrrhtones
Coiling aromatics, chromatic aberrations, wrapped
Around the dawn of creation, dark as it is light
Eyes seven pointed stars, twelve faceted
Spewing forth gems, moulten sublime terror
Tourmaline, reddish-purple or purpleish-blue
Electric bolts crackling into fungi, into fungal
Frameworks for cementing fireworks in arid dis>play
Six crows to nine ganders; a gambler's dozen
Lord of the forests, Queen of the realms
The copper elms bough down to you, arms
Bought and brought low, to the dung heap
Coddled up together in a neatly hewn orb, rolled
By a blue-legged beetle, noble scarab else known,
Chief roller of all roils and otherwise rilesome.
The draconic coils wind in and on themselves
Beyond what can be seen or known, this dragon
Beckons into the transcendent plane or place
Passing first up the stairs, then through the door
Into the entrance hall with the others. One kneels
And offers, humbly as one can, and is then brought
Beyond the entrance hall into the main room,
Lined with columns and built underground,
Torches on the walls, flickering. Forms transform
Between blinks and with each unfocus one stumbles
Out of what one thought into what one could not
Imagine yet can live by and within. In this fourth
Phase, one is in unparalleled transcension and
This is only the fourth phase. At the end of this is
An orb, cradled in the claws and jaws of the dragon
With countless eunuch attendants, silent, speechless
Eyes locked on nothing. One grasps the orb and
Is absorbed into its demesne, a snow globe of light
Encapsulated and kept, infinite in scope, the
Surpassment of all prior knowledge and thought,
Beyond all conventional boundaries into the limit
Of transcendence unbound; they call it the sixth sphere
Unlimited except by experience of it as such. The concept
Vanishes at the omnipresent center and circumference
And one transcends transcendence, obliterates obliteration
Until there is nothing that cannot be nothing nor
Anything else to surpass or go beyond, except that which
Cannot go beyond what cannot go beyond; the seventh
Gives way to the 8th, imperilous vastness so possible
As to be impossibility itself, pure potence, eternal indifference
Indivisible and ever divided, beyond division into division
Of indivision, encompassing all and more and other and
Else otherwise unspeakable and nonsensical, yet words
Remain in some form, expanded and contracted to
Their mere limitless capacity to capture and grasp
What cannot be captured or grasped, yet conjured and
Conferred from one arbitrary distinction to another, for
Some various or nefarious intention which can no longer
Be justly called nefarious, but just. And then, somehow,
The immaterial expands into the material, the ninth
Circuit, the crystalline body which contains all bodies and
Nonbodies, disembodied and infinite. A container of
Uncontainables, freshly defined and descended in
Pure ascension, imperious. This body collapses
Breaks down into infinite fractalline iterations of itself
Each of which can hardly be made out or grasped
And yet is the making and the grasping itself. The tenth
Final level of this purple dragon’s “temple” becomes again
Immaterial, elemental. The entire feast in one bite.
What happens here must be passed over in silence—
Only grammar can intimate it
…
Now unfractaling into itself, a wisp of purple smoke
A shimmer of iridescent scale, weighing, tipping
Scaled up or down to size and altogether bespoke
And spoken for, and spoken unto, a wise crackle
Of a morning glory gold, whizzing, puffing into
Tyrian purple, made of ten thousands of sea snails,
Crushed to a secret stew, organic dye, to stain
The hands of those who fancy themselves
Worthy of such mutilation. From Tyre to Cádiz,
The pillars of Hercules, the threshold of Atlantis:
Phoenicia, the Land of the Purple, coils about
The whole of the Mediterranean, Middle-Earthen;
Its whispers and scrawlings form the old letters,
22 characters that would prefigure the texts of
Epic, Theatre, Commedia, Tragedy, Fairytale,
And countless more prophetic script, so preserved.
The production of Phoenicia’s reddish-purple
And hyacinth-blue organic dyes ran around 3000
Years, from about 1500 BCE to the fateful fall of
Constantinople in 1453. The method of
Mass production in foul smelling vats is still
Unknown, save its image. Pliny’s method is
Inefficient, to say the least. The harvested mucus
Of 12,000 snails could dye but the trim of one
Robe. No wonder laws were made to limit
Who could use, or wear, such a precious color.
Production ranged from the shores of Tyre to isles
Off the coast of Morocco. “Do not go past
The pillars of Hercules.” Everything began to change
In the Renaissance period. A time of undying, undead
Shrieking, the wooden stake stabs right through
The heart of these unhealed hands, holy as they
Are filthy, untoward as they are miraculous,
Meticulously orchestrated manifestations, leprous
And bulbous, shooting stocks of garlic weave
From the freshly tilled soil of the slithering
Strigoi’s bed, silent and still after all.
II.
I feel them!
Wriggling under my skin
Clawing their way out
Ripping
Snarling
Festering
Barking at the moon
Howling
The purification is underway
III.
For thus says the Lord GOD,
“When I make you a desolate city, like the cities
which are not inhabited, when I bring up the deep
over you and the great waters cover you, then I will
bring you down with those who go down to the pit,
to the people of old, and I will make you dwell in
the lower parts of the earth, like the ancient waste
places, with those who go down to the pit, so that you
will not be inhabited; but I will set glory in the land
of the living. I will bring terrors on you and you will
be no more; though you will be sought, you will never
be found again,” declares the Lord GOD.
IV.
Liquid distilled crystal miracle
St. Andreas watches over the howling of the wolves
God is a horrible horrible marvel to behold
V.
Purple eviscerating dragon
Lacerating
VI.
Dripping
Sopping
Water made me wet
Water is nothing
It is everything
VII.
UnFortunately, it’s all love
If it wasn’t, it wouldn’t not be love.
Fortunately and Unfortunately
Every Last Thing is Love
VIII.
Seize
System Seizure
She’s seizing!
IX.
Full fertile lush plump baby boy
X.
Cleanse
XI.
Austerity, Clarity
Stark
Sharp
XII.
23 is the key, they say;
Won’t you
Take a ride on the purple dragon
With me?
XIII.
Riding the purple dragon
We fly
We soar
To the very end
Of the beginning
Of the end;
Which itself is the beginning we seek
Torturous, . ! (it calls for all three ways of closing my one word statement
). I’m on the edge of my holding.