…or so said The Phantom of /dev/null before he hit the road. Didn’t say where he was going. Just mumbled something about not being able to obtain a Visa. Something about his Birth Certificate having been invalidated by his Death Certificate or some such bureaucratic nonsense.
/dev/null is in the process of being gentrified. Everyone split. No one around but Raghead (wisely posting from an ‘undisclosed location;’ then again, he’s a professional…).
I was subject to ‘yeah’ awhile for willing sounds stray, a bit too far left, or maybe right, of Standard Operating Music Arrangement (SOMA), than even the liberal interpreter of SOMA can silently suffer. She must sing.
Idiots wanted, the proverbial want-ads read, Sons of suffering to be put through worse. Qualified applicants assume Marketable position. Bite. Hard. Bite that bullet hard son bite hard….
“Can’t you see that? Can’t you open your eyes for one goddamned minute and just see that? Or at least see something if not ‘that’ specifically.”
“If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?” – Shelley
Straight-jacketed and cuffed for sin of Tooth-fang (mocking Death’s assumption of my mirror), I was at liberty to choose: custom-crucifixion, or celebrity-autographed slug (hollow-point splash-effect inside-out – cameras pan dead audience eyes: unthinkable). Oh blessed mercy of The Cross!
Holyman said, “Tender thy name to God’s gulag hand that thou mays’t kiss kid-gloves. Repent.”
Dear Diary,
Nothing much happened today in the great wide world. Some folks got whacked in, what was it, Sudan, Libya, Syria, Somalia, Palestine, something like that who can tell the difference with those people always blowing up cars with themselves in them cause this or that god told ‘em to do it. Heathens. If they’d just turned Christian like the missionaries told’em they wouldn’t be in this mess.
Also, some kind of fighting broke out or ‘situation deteriorated’ as the newsguy said, in — where else? — Iraq. Serves ‘em right for…uh…what was it
What is the nature of your pain? You do not ‘fit in,’ it seems. Does this upset you? You say you want ‘a revolution,’ yet you despise the sight of blood. How can this possibly make sense?
I thought it was just a Life thing, you know, a matter of determine, fit to scale. The wall of human separates. Desire from Achieve and all that…
Faith propels Forever beyond the blasted years of ones such as yourself, toward some Someday, the Past and all the rest to be flotsam-jetsammed overboard.
We Are Ritual
This getting close to Holy Holies, exiled from sanctuary, no recompense for slaughter; this poor interpretation of Accused; this blaming Everyday for any Other, is how we whistle past grave-yard sophistries of “common knowledge” and “all that goes without saying” and such. Such. Such Righteous exclamations.
Like: “You should have been more clear!”
We are Accused. Still, yet, again. We are ritual.
Victoria and Albert Museum, London; March, 2000
A passel of statues spread before us, a collection: Buddhas, Saints, variations on a theme of Pietà, knights on catafalques, the whole bit. Centuries of Fashion revised, redacted, re-positioned, from time-to-time, by expert members of Museum staff, in deference to the fashion du jour and its inevitable re-valuation of all values as defined in relation to (and in correlation with) levels of Manichean contempt and contrast between, former regime – Them, and its successor – Us.
