Edgar Allan Poe (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quotetheraven) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
avalononline2021-10-01 11:33 am
quotetheraven) wrote in avalononline2021-10-01 11:33 am
Video // un; E.A. Poe - Forwarded a bit to 10/7 late night
A toast, to this most auspicious night! Though I'm uncertain as how I could have potentially traveled back... or perhaps forward, in time. The actual way that time works in this purgatory confounds me to no end. It was the seventh of October a month ago for me, yet now it is that same time again a month later.
[His sense of time's out of whack. He takes a swig from a bottle, also obviously buzzed. The sound of other people talking and drinking, and eating in the background could be heard. He was at a bar.]
To experience it yet again after only a single month has passed is distressing in and of itself, and a mockery at best. Nevertheless! I'm an entertainer at heart, so I submit to your ears, for this, the month of the dead and witchcraft, "The Conqueror Worm".
[He takes another drink.]
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
[Another longer drink.]
And yes, I'll do requests if any of you phantasms know any of my other works.
[His sense of time's out of whack. He takes a swig from a bottle, also obviously buzzed. The sound of other people talking and drinking, and eating in the background could be heard. He was at a bar.]
To experience it yet again after only a single month has passed is distressing in and of itself, and a mockery at best. Nevertheless! I'm an entertainer at heart, so I submit to your ears, for this, the month of the dead and witchcraft, "The Conqueror Worm".
[He takes another drink.]
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
[Another longer drink.]
And yes, I'll do requests if any of you phantasms know any of my other works.