Ignatius
Browne wore a curious frown,
After
taking up gainful employment in town,
But
soon he was living in moments of divine distraction,
In
a kitchen distinguished for its furious action.
He’d forget all about his cruel disfigurement,
The
way that his fingers would race through time,
He
dismissed all knowledge of mortal sentiment,
And
gradually all that he served was sublime.
One
evening following a faultless service,
He
pondered on what he found beautiful in life,
As
he strolled he heard music and saw ground-breaking art,
Felt
the warmth on his back and saw the face of a wife.
…and
a beautiful face…
…Which
would not a take a beating…
…Like
so many others provoked on first meeting…
But
taking a beating was just what she did.
Young
Browne was a coward though, and he hid,
From
the violent gang that killed his wife,
He
hid while they burnt, throttled and raped her,
And
hid when they stripped her and ripped her and taped her.
Till
one cold winter night long after that event,
By
the time that Browne lived out of a tent,
The
fiends returned and they got him too,
When
he shivered asleep,
He
was rudely awakened
By
an army of feet,
Which
stomped on his face,
While
his body they beat.
They
left him with nothing, all tatters and blood,
In
the ditch by a bush near a stream made of mud.
Till
a lone rider passing, looked down on hearing,
The
horrible noises which came from the clearing.
“Step
up,” said the stranger from on top his steer,
I’ll
house and nurse you, my home’s just down here.
Browne
with a nod and a grimace complied,
To
the farmhouse they went, to the devil they’d ride.
For
his saviour was not of the virtuous mind,
But
a slave to his pleasures, the unholiest kind,
He
travelled the land to seek out any poor,
Unfortunate
wretches he’d manage to lure.
On
waking, Ignatius, his nightmare he found,
Alone
on a table, all naked and bound,
His
body laid out, the unprepared meal,
To
be seared by the flame or cut by the steel.
As
minutes turned to hours and hours into days,
Ignatius
endured unimaginable ways,
Under
the beady, gleaming eye of his tormentor,
On
the surface he softened but beneath it he seethed,
And
his instinct got sharper as long as he breathed.
One
day faced with only his death or survival
His
hand found a blade and his pupil his rival,
His master came close and Browne took his
chance
And
speared his tormenter with cold makeshift lance.
But
before he escaped and ran into the night,
For
an hour he held the dead body in sight,
Blood
ran from his hands to the sounds of his cries,
As
he carved round the sockets and pulled out the eyes.
The
eyes he took with him, from then down the line
In
a jar, under arm, all pickled in brine.
He’d
watch them and listen to roaches at night,
And
only repose when the day became light.
To
survive through the day was his singular plan,
Hence
man became beast, and the beast was a man.
One
night near a ditch by a bush and a stream,
A
lady was lost and a person did scream.
They
found her alone in the light of the day,
Talking
forever but nothing to say.
She
spoke of a beast, burnt toe to head,
With
scars all bound up with sheep-guts and thread.
It
was bald on the crown and the skull was the feature
All
scarred and sucked in, it was Lucifer’s creature.
Ignatius
had heard her come singing through grass
And
thought it his wife come to get him at last.
He
rose and she jumped, he did her no wrong,
But
he’d never forget the melodious song.
Merely
to live was his function no longer,
As
desire for the song in him grew all the stronger.
Under
cover of darkness, on lolloped Browne,
Until
hearing a tune from the tavern in towne.
With
eyeballs in jar held firmly to chest,
He
burst through the door and we all know the rest.
He snatched
up the wench and then made for the pass,
And
that was the last that we e’er saw of the lass.
The
song turned to terror as he dragged her along,
And
all that Browne knew was that something was wrong.
To
the ground went the jar as her screams pierced his ears
And
he ripped out her tongue as her eyes poured with tears.
Nine
days he dragged her to cliff by the ocean,
Where
he threw down the body in one sweeping motion.
Then
felt his way down to a cave where he sat,
Crunching
on crabs and on spiders and bats.
In
the darkness he’d feign to make music with stones,
But
when none could be heard, he would crush his own bones.
Over
years as they’d mend they seemed to grow stronger,
And
his legs they grew long, and his arms they grew longer.
At
the mouth of his dwelling was a mountain of carcass,
Of
faeces and flesh which would stink in the darkness.
He
blocked up his nostrils with earth, leaves and sticks,
And
his head appeared smaller and his mouth it played tricks.
Now
those that go passing within a four hectare square
Would
do well to heed this and never go there.
Or
end up as one of the many he masters,
For
a man can move fast, but Ignatius moves faster.
Of
morals this ballad may offer up sone,
Such
as some take a beating and most more than one,
To receive
one is bad, but to give one is worse,
So
beware not to be one who dishes the first,
Or
it may simply be that to judge from afar,
Is
enough for your soul to end up in a jar.
