The Baine Hour
TheBaine Hour glides, as I sit gazing outside, through the night street window of this dimly lit city bar tonight. I watch ghosts and shadows of the passers-by, to bide my gratified pavine of Time. As I sit about this dimly lit city bar about the night. Daylights faded, the noise grew somber, as the White Horse hour neared by. As she walked in, thin and fair skinned, her body etched with glorious purples of her time. Sitting about the bar, her drink poured violet, frothy, white, while morphing with our space and time. The Grand hour rises, as I gather to my feet, to save this mistress of my kind. We laugh and watch, the ticking clock glide, the sound subdued as a sweeping hand would slide, with each turn it did click, but not for our kind; on this, our night - We raise and drink, to an oh so wonderful TheBaine time. Gilded from age time, now upon our 30s, we step set in the city streets to bide the cadence of the flow of our footsteps upon the pavement. Step by step, with her in arm, our black and purple love flows, a stream love can not disarm. Gazing ahead, one car, then two, the hour stands still in the wake of our Moonlit God. Her love behold my eyes with magnificent and vibrant pupils in disguise. I can't help but to stare; but I mustn't, I might...No...Yes! The Baine Hour glides and bends Will to our time. Her eyes scream, her love and pain pours through words of silence, of the course none is broken. I can't look away, to break her gaze, her eyes gape, is to but break mine. We must go forward, this Vicious and Vivacious love we command has stopped the sands of time. Do her eyes codone a kiss, as the thought ponders I'm striken of oxygen as steals my soul with her kiss. The streets spinning out of control, life doesn't exist, just us, commanding this hour of our watches, entwined, oxygen morphing together as the sands, now wet cease to drip out of time.
By: ⧎ Michael Anthony ⧎ (3XC)
The Baine Hour glides again tonight.
I sit alone in a dim citadel bar — the kind of place where neon bleeds into rain and the mirrors remember faces better than the patrons do. Outside the long window the city drifts past like a slow procession of ghosts. Footsteps. Umbrellas. Cigarette embers. Lives crossing the wet pavement like fleeting signals on a broken channel.
I watch them as one watches static.
Time is my pavine tonight — a slow ceremonial dance with the hourglass.
Daylight surrendered hours ago. The city quieted into that familiar somber hum — the low mechanical breath of generators, trains beneath the earth, and the occasional siren mourning something already lost.
The White Horse Hour approaches.
And then she arrives.
Thin as a whisper through smoke, pale beneath the bar’s violet lights, her skin carrying the faint bruised purples of a life well-lived and dangerously loved. She moves like someone who already knows the end of the story but reads it anyway.
No announcement.
Just presence.
She sits.
The bartender knows better than to ask.
Her glass arrives already poured.
Violet liquor.
Froth white as moon-foam.
The drink seems to shimmer — as if time itself dissolves inside it.
For a moment the room bends.
The Grand Hour rises.
I stand.
Not because I must.
Because the ritual demands it.
We laugh then — that quiet conspirator’s laughter shared by people who know clocks are only suggestions. The great brass chronometer above the bar sweeps its hand across the dial with a slow metallic whisper.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The room obeys it.
But not us.
Tonight belongs to our kind.
We raise our glasses.
“To the Baine Hour.”
Violet fire touches the throat and spreads like warm rebellion.
Credits:
Aleister Crowley
The Baine Hour
:: By::
⧎ Michael Anthony ⧎ (3XC)