He writes poetry and novels about so many silly things, praised by critics, for they too must seize the earth and make it their home away from home; being in the same breath of fools. Consequently, true poets, born in the aftermath of the rich legacy Literature gave to others indeed not scoundrels and godless pseudo scientists, rejected this agrarian individualism, of Twain and Hardy and Stendahl. I was born within the cauldron of Shakespeares weird sisters, that calmed the blood of revolution, to establish the greatest dynasty of writers since the great English elizabethans. Hugo, Flaubert, Camus, Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Maupassant, my Uncle Andre Gide, let good motions to scurry my words across the pages of a dying world, set in the atmospheres of Paris destruction, rebirth, and incessant resurrection. How I love my Paris! O God let the Seine be rubbed on my eyelids laying in the white flags of Jeanne dArc at the moment of my funerals modulation! Oscar Wilde was the last prophet sacrificed as a saint the hungry jaws of goddamned ignorance, powers that rule a dark megalopolis. Society caters to the whims of new Pharisees. So this is life. Victims of love strewn in the streets, prone apertures, insidious sweet, in deaths forlorn, a biblical basking that tells the poet of a coming storm. Yet the poet cannot be stopped. The music of Mercury must enchant the shadows of a resurgent moon. The essence to revolt lies in the face of dehumanization, albeit, his stage to glory is concession to endure the pang and frequent stings of humiliation. So, as Twain stopped to retain a dignified pose after knocking the angels down without provocation, I knew he shuddered at his ghastly mistake. I could see his blanched face, how those angels could have consumed him in the fire of a glance, but they chose for their God, the God of Abraham and Isaac, my God, to render that devils fate. I could feel even Miltons Satan have pity on Twains soul when I saw it happen, at the ascension of my small American town of Hanklettsville, those dreams ago, when Drownan and I attended firstly the grand fete of the deathless, that saw our send off into the spiritual worlds, where I could gain a closer attendance with Christ, my God, and save Drownans soul by the strength of my words intimate memorials, enough to obtain his salvation, like Cyrano to his Roxanne, Quixote his Dulcinea, giving love to prorogue love, without advantage, without guile or sin.
Posted on: Sat, 20 Dec 2014 20:02:22 +0000
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