Monday, January 21, 2013

Monologues

Enso Red 11/20

You gotta remember to forget forgotten paraphernalia such as:

The kind that nauseates the senses and sensibilities, such as the ones adorned by dead folks of questionable nature and more so when it delves down to moralities. You can smell them even after they are long forgotten and gone. You don’t see their faces as much as you can sense their corrupted souls now yearning for forgiveness.

Their hands are folded in earnest and in death; they mean it as opposed to life when they forged it.
There are none I can recall.
Their visages do not register.
Their speeches do not linger.

Their lives do not echo. It’s the echo’s refusal to do so more than my own yearnings.
If they were important you'd probably remember and eventually one does so as these random lives reverberate and resonate in the five elements.
Like the way you do certain anonymous faces and apparitions of mysterious faces burrowed in mystical profiles somewhat evocative of gypsies and highwaymen and the breed that lived on the edges now become a creed that embers, fuels and alights whatever’s dark and lost.

They come in various disguises but you remember most vividly the ones who came in avatars of-
Dead poets
Painful painters
Sorrowed sculptors
Sad-eyed singers
Rotting rockers and the Les Miserables.

Wasted writers and those brethren of similar ilk many of whom refused the safe milk in favor of poisoned mushrooms and discarded herbs. Who ate the much maligned plant and its leaves of concentrated peace and distorted ease. Who dined on the shaman’s cacti and for dessert went to lie among the poppy flowers and its fields of other-worldly dreams.

Who shunned family and heirlooms.
Distrusted money and all its trappings of sweetened honey.
Tolerated ranks and titles as one would the limbs that come as appendages to the body.
Who denied the glory.
Who defied the hypocrisy.
Who welcomed the gory of the human fallibility and celebrated its collective agony.
Who held festivities in honor of inquisitiveness and made questioning an art and a craft pursued ceaselessly.

Middle Way, Summertown, Oxford

And others with a penchant for the dramatic such as:
The suicidal bent.
Mindless binge of the grounded lot now gone aloft.
Who unearthed experimental results from life's long and dreary tentacles of fear and loathing beyond the confines of borders and boundaries and boundaries and borders.
Who cut them in a butcher’s plate and served them as seafood in a buffet where the norm was:
Eating the orthodox.
Devouring the conventional.
Cooking authorities.
Laughing at laws.
Stretching rules till they snapped.
Burning regulations.
Ignoring gravity.
And saying 'left' when someone queried 'where's right?'
And going 'right' when summoned by the 'left'.
With courses of knowing where the Middle Path lay and refusing to trod the same.
Asking the Buddha if he perchance played chess?
Or perhaps lions and goats?
Refusing the Devil's offer for fame and fortune.
Telling him instead to go and use his fcvking imagination.
Who gamely offered subtle suggestives loud and clear, as appetizers from a chef of letters.
And further chirps from an elephant that went:
Get a new underwear-cabinet.
Or a snappier headgear.
Or to auction that clichéd Pitchfork.
Anything but the ancient call of the troll with excerpts from the hallowed alumni of the school of vagabonds that graciously penned the following:

Paintings of Life of Gautama Buddha in Asalha Puja

"Gimme some of yer boiling human wine" bellowed Modigliani
"A bowl of piping opiate" snarled Coleridge
"Keep the fires bloody red and burning" screamed Dante
“I'm cutting the other ear" threatened Van Gogh
“I’m shooting all yer balls” hollered Dr Thompson
“How many times can ye possibly kill me?” bellowed Kerouac
“Here’s a bouquet of bones” offered Wordsworth
“You could play the horn” offered Garcia
“Or play the humorless clown” added Shakespeare
“Act the methodical dickhead” piped in Brando
“Gimme a blow” ordered Burroughs

Exasperated and exhausted by the barrage of disorderly flow, the devil slung his pitchfork, disrobed his overalls, uncorked his horns, took off the skin-suit, turned toward the gypsy he’d thought of roasting and kneeling, said with a burrowed frow, “No Sympathy for the Devil?’
And the old gypsy had smiled and said with a grin “That’d be up to Keef. That’d be up to Keef. And since he refuses to pop it, we’ll just have to wait it.”

“There’s no beef ‘twixt me and Keef! There’s no beef ‘twixt me and Keef” the Devil beseeched.
“Such is life” the dead artists decreed asking the penultimate question from their discarded scroll of questionnaire.
“Now who do ya remember?”

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!
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