“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. – Arthur Conan Doyle
“Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. He’s speaking before her feet can move, the frosty air seeping from his twisted and thin lips. “You’ve dreamed again, haven’t yu “Eve”, bout that place, I heard yu singing about it, while yu did service to the lad’s. The service makes her shiver, the large bodies close to hers, eyes blurred, the smell of death and Opium on their breath, the reaper coming forth. The reaper coming forth.
From the Private papers of A.C. Doyle (a synopsis) – Saturday, June 7, 1890
She sings like crystal, with her eyes stark bare, looking towards something above us all that’s maybe in darkness there. The chandelier turns above her swaying but will not fall, my Louisa claims there’s soft skin writhing in each glass tear shaped swollen areola bare. I’m amiss at my judgment to think this maiden is earth, something turns with her vocal’s that makes my loins burn with thirst. My friend Stoker should be here to witness of what we see, the east enders crying before the angel of super naturality. All around the Haymarket, the air is so thick, her majesty, Victoria, asleep in her mist, of wonder that weaving, while this phantom sings. Evangeline oh poet, in me the hounds of Baskerville scream.
An act in two parts, she says between stanzas and times, she works magic in cunning, between high notes that climb. This lady from Whitby that knows all my mind, her wanton eyes searching, above north, for ladders I shall never climb. The fates have done risen, in graveyards sublime, her soft cockney voice inviting the audience, those around me so refined. It seems I can’t think straight, the melody is like a web, I look over at my Louisa she’s not breathing as if dead. The song of a night bird, falls around my company. Evangeline in her movements, what is she, I wonder what is she?
Her gown is luminous liquid, that runs high from her thighs, the gasp in the theatre, when her arms sway from side to side. Her enchanting voice, with lilt and so fine, and then she lowers her tones, all the world is entwined. Oh, magic sweet magic, from where does she arrive, I wonder of her outcome, this night so divine.
The chandelier lowers, calling deep unto deep, she mounts it, with her voice rising and touching. Her tenderness, comes in rushes, and I a doctor who have seen the arctic cold, cannot explain her frozen touches. Her frozen tender touches. And she rest me, and all torment becomes beauty, while she sings.
“Uriah” comes up from the Roman tunnels, that place north of the river on Wapping Wall, he looks as “Dickens” has described him, “writhing and discourteous”. A different time perhaps, as all times are different. Sail me home to Whitby, Evangeline whispers. Her frozen breath crosses things unseen.
They pass the Roman tunnels; that place from long ago. The crypts sail by in the damp air. She looks at Uriah, “that was a long time ago she whispers, a long time ago”. “Aye, he says, all is different now, still, he says, still…. – 09.15.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל