Eliptical Truth

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With these half-eyed graspings, these oblique and elliptical mouldings, do we refine and funnel any greater truth, distill any purer essence? In saying things not quite as they are but rather constructing an array of articulate moorings around the centrifuge of divine truth, each like a tangential, allegorical homunculus, yabbering a garbled version of the central truth, in vaguely comprehensible tongues, are we amplifying our receptiveness to deeper reality? I cannot imbue the oxygen railing down your thorax with eye-whitening purity simply by saying it. So I must say it, dream it, ingest it, sculpt it, compose it, draw it, imagine it, be it, breathe it myself and most of all, avoid at all costs bringing it into existence by elucidating it with infallible, crystalline, atomic accuracy; for then there is only facsimile, analogy, parallelism and worse, deification and false worship. I am not sure what I am talking about any more other than the terror of pure and untrammelled replication; the horror of self-realisation and annihilation in the precise mathematics of infinity, which require an utterly flawless account of appearance and movement. So, the harnessing of primal truth by elipsis, as we began this, is also the avoidance of the utter damnation of pure, distilled, excoriating expression. The darkest and most beautiful truths of all must never be untapped directly at their source, but rather unveiled decorously from the safe distance of perception and transcription. Only then will the halos of sunlight light our dreams of knowing, rather than blind us with the intensity of their unbending truth, for which we will never be prepared.

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Masked Ball

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Voices travel up and round through the hidden veil flimsily shielding us from the harbinger. How narrow, how caustic our insular limitations. A litany howled in harmony awakes my blood and says there must be more, there is only less, this eye, this tooth, this touch of yours on my flesh. The homage to delirium ululating across the room, the nakedness of my fear. I have no fear. All is done.  Alway was. I move through the circle of time as all did who came after. We grasp at silken robes, masking our hunger, our unborn terror, clasping for the return to unity; this earth beneath this moon – our cosmic corner writ monumentally across this momentary universe, betwixt our writhing agonies of joy, pursuant on the disinhibition of our lusts, our transient pursuits of the pleasure of you, your ungodly surges and trembling heart. This coupling uncoupling of our festering heat, nought but disguise, distraction from the raging, suffusing purple sky of disintegration and knowing, the shallow foisting of tangential lusts atop and around and inside our flaggelated innards; how sublime this esoteric sky, how partial and how demonic your dream – mine in yours, yours in mine – wake, sleep, wake, you cannot know which as you and he succumb to this gaudy and glorious charade of feasting hungrily on privilege and power.  How soon our little deaths will pass and we stand cowering, alive, yet again before the monolith of creation…hide, hide once more in the quick shelter of the feasted flesh.

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The Incisive Art of Truth

Incisive words scratch truth from underground, the fractal infinity of this ordered chaos around us unearthed by a mere choosing of phrase, a motif of angular acuity, a choice of word from my ether; given unto you across the livid void as would a firing neuron cross the synapse, exchanging memes and droplets of guarded coherence; isolated pulses of a far greater good, a universal mind atop our microtiny network. Each man and woman a flashing beacon of binary modality, whatever that may mean, a transmitter of impeccable truth wrapped in the fog of inelegant interpretation, and antennae too, pilfering half-truths, untruths and misunderstandings from out of the air and into misuses and abuses of the blinkered ego; our shallow stance, our anthropomorphic prism scattering interference across each transmission, words and memes blunted and blurred before our eyes…

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The Cosmic Arc of Her Beauty

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A drop of life in a dew bell, a dance of care in the hay, a telling of divinity atop the yarn, the past the now the truth eaten by the inanity of an insouciant world, a breath not even nearly understood and a melody of the arcing stars too high for us to see. Such drama such insight setting our pulse afire with the hopefulness of yearning, the erotic portent of knowing, the untold realisation – ever elusive – of our souls. The hunger the unction the squelch of a recombinant demise. A birth a death too hastily conceived; a kiss, a touch, a finger tracing down the skin, a tumult at your core, these dreams, this reality betwixt our rapt and desperate embrace. The counting click of the counting clock marking time’s evaporation, its evisceration of our layers down to the final kernel, each moment of our breath, each kiss one more and one fewer, the proud watery sun rising in the North again for the trillionth time above our heads…How strange yet how glorious to think one day, still eons beyond, will also be its last. Even so, its fateful end but a microcosmic blink in the reaches of the cosmos. Yes, how small our lives, though large our loves. How grand, how small, how pale, how beautiful. Your transient wistful beauty in my heart, tracing its shimmering arc across the wizened sky of ages. And of course, of course, of course, I love you so.

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How It Is with Samuel Beckett

Beckett holds a prism up to our consciousness, through which the light of our self-knowledge splits into a kaleidoscope of deeper insight.  His prose unearths the intimacy of the inner-conversation we have with ourselves in most of our waking moments, and then too, in dreams. The juxtaposition of a stream of consciousness interspersed with the traditional development of a narrative, a ‘story’, charts our erratic yet constant movement through space-time, as creatures both self-aware and desirous, yet equally ignorant and lacking in true volition. Some would call this the absurd, the pointlessness of existence, the hysterical but not hilarious absence of free will. For Beckett though, it is just ‘How it Is’ or ‘Comment c’est’ as the original French version was called. It has been surmised that The Unnamable and How it Is are apogees of an attempt to portray some kind of purgatorio, a netherworld of in-between life and death, whereas the truth is somewhat simpler, albeit disguised by the exquisitely disorienting experience of being transposed, as a reader, to such an eminently alien yet  also believable world. And therein lies the clue – the very believability of this nauseous and exhilarating flow of incoherence lies precisely in its capturing of our current reality; in other words, in the fact that the purgatorio, the neither-this-nor-that, the limbo, the insatiable hunger and the cacophony of mirth accompanying the ultimate resignation of our souls to fate beyond comprehension, is of course, the world that we already inhabit.  The genius of Beckett is in showing us this profound truth by completely altering our normal perspective in lifting us into the world he paints with all its semblance of a surreal, shapeless and comic plane of disembodied despair and ultimate acceptance.  Never can the human condition, our spirit, our frailty, our primal beauty and our sublime and hilarious ignorance ever have been more deliciously and ingeniously laid out before us in a completely new mode of expression.  Beckett unpicks our physiology and neurology and recasts them in a way which utterly affirms our human potential as living breathing art and makes the immortality of the soul, as part of some  unfathomable gargantuan cosmic fabric suddenly seem tenable, even to the greatest sceptic.

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The Oathful Disorientation of Rebirth

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I was in a field. I think. It was certainly the countryside. I didn’t know why I was there. Or why I was lying on my side in a slightly damp place. A Crow appeared. He squawked or whatever the fuck you call a crow crowing. His feathers were quite disheveled. Made him look fat. Get off me you chubby cunt I said. How is that for my first words I thought. That will show him. Of course he couldn’t give a shit what I said. Neither could I come to think of it. The funny thing is that he wasn’t actually on me. Thinking about it maybe. Pecking my eyes out in a minute no doubt. A lovely gelatinous grubby slobber for his morning snack. Was it morning? The sun was up but it was cold. Maybe it was winter. Maybe the sun was running out of steam. I don’t know what the sun was doing any more than I know what I was doing. Am doing I mean. The crow seems to have  lost interest. He’s facing…He? It. She. Fuck knows. A female crow would not peck my eye out would it? Why not? She might be even more inclined to feed her young with it. Good on her. Peck away Peck away mumma. Just don’t try it on me you bitch. Anyway why all this anger at a crow that is no longer looking at me that never was going to eat my eye probably? Focus on what I should be focusing on. Like where am I? Where is my left shoe? Was I drugged?

I try to get up. It’s a bit of a palaver. Nothing feels broken but it’s not exactly pliant. Grunting and retching I stand up. The crow hops a few feet further away just in case although I’m as much danger to it as a butterfly. I’m much steadier on my feet than I thought but the missing shoe is a bit awkward. Actually it must be a missing boot as it’s a boot on my right foot. But what if I only ever had one boot to begin with? How could that kind of thing happen? Maybe I lost my shoes and found a single boot later. Maybe it’s around.

I look around, rubbing my arms with my hands to keep warm. At least I have a coat but I don’t recognise it. Not recognising the coat you are wearing is not a normal sensation come to think of it. I tried to think of the last time I felt that. But that itself presupposed memories of some sort. Flashbacks of me and all my previous coats were sorely lacking. How about previous hats? I put my hand up to feel. Feels like straw but I think it’s matted hair. Nothing lifts off in my hand anyway. If it’s a hat it’s found itself well and truly pinioned.

This nonsense can’t continue. I remember disorientation like this I think from maybe yesterday or is it supposed to happen tomorrow. I know it’s not the first time I’ve discovered myself abandoned in the wilds like some demeaned scarecrow but I don’t know anything about it either. That’s the thing you see, something so strange seems so predictable too. I know I shouldn’t be here but I know that I was bound to be, made to be, needed to be whether or not my volition was tampered with. Thinking of that do I have any money. Something akin to a wallet in this muddy pocket. A tattered thing of leathery providence I bring out. Some coins. What currency is this? Do they belong in this country? What language is this? How do I remember that you think in the language you speak without knowing the language I speak? How do such things happen.

The Crow is back. Will you fuck off I shout waving an arm. I didn’t have to think which language it was in to say it so that’s good. Doesn’t help me much though. Yiddish or Pidgin there’s nothing in sight for miles. And that will be hunger speaking from my gut now challenging my thirst and the cold for supremacy. Ah, Lord, there were so many feats of the imagination I still wanted to loiter around but here I am, thick with some kind of putrid vagrancy lolloping around in a grey field somewhere forsaken. Or it’s me that’s forsaken same difference. My head hurts too. If I had a mirror I feel sure it wouldn’t lie. Purple and yellow bruises across my skull for certain. Somebody has had my head in a great farm machine. The pig crusher or some other slurry maker. And I’m some kind of slurry already. Muddied and squeezed and bitter with recriminations. They are only claims against myself mind you. What delirium what tremens what cirrhotic sputum must I have lain down to end up here in this abandonment of purpose, this empty field, I keep calling it a field but it isn’t it’s a pit of filth like me. And I’m part of it now rolling around and spinning like some old dervish of decay. Enough. I stand up although I thought I had already stood up. I must have only thought about it or perhaps I did stand up and then fell down again but I don’t remember falling down but then I don’t remember standing up. This needs a new a orientation. A nexus they call it I thought. But that is quite stellar but all this shit, this cold mud and dizziness had nothing cosmic about it. Our at least no more than a stagnant pool of infected water – billions of micro-organisms dancing with replicated coordination and the comic syncopation of rapid multiplication. That’s pretty cosmic after all so I take it all back. I’m still lost and senseless out here though. I’m still looking for you to extract me, to render me human with that surgical precision of fusing atoms and lasered vessels cauterised back to a semblance of recognisable mortality. I’m waiting. The next move is yours.

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The Calamitous Glory of Desire

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You looked at me with fanciful eyes of possession. Or so I say. Did I look first? Fantastic comments cajoled their way to our pensive lips and incantations of passion mouthed their alluring silences inside my head. And perhaps in yours. Wanton visions of the heavings and cravings of the skin demanded their moments of fortitude and I wanted you so, just in that very way. How the surety of your warmth, your enlivening cries of surprised wonder and the gentle arcs of your naked silhouette did speak to me in tongues, in motifs of primal, pointless need, their very pointlessness the deepest longing of all.  And you played along, I think, knowing, that I knew that you knew, without ever so saying, and you fed the hunger with morsels of disguise. But you could not step outside yourself today or not ever, perhaps, the fear of allure, the threat to your trundling comforted life, its packages of earned privilege, commodities too sweet for you to disown – too much at stake you would say, to yourself, I am sure, for you to step across despite yourself, to disinhibit your mores and be what you really need to be – for that is disallowed in this chintzy model of pretend existence we create. And so you will stick to the road, I will guess, fear of the darkening tracks in the deepening forest of your mind overruling, only just, your dizzied exhilarated breast at the idea of succumbing, of giving it all up – of showering, disrobed and exuberant, in the fecund, simmering truth of this desire. Best hold yourself together. Best avert my eyes then, for they will speak of all this all too sweetly and then the rest will be unstoppable, calamitous glory…

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