I ain't no fool. Tumbling through time like an olive on a pizza with no other olives. Lampshade rhymes rumbling amidst the abyss of perpetual ecstasy. Spotted zebras drowning in vodka, as bits and pieces, floating, to the detriment of young drinkers. Lipstick brogues at a press-conference, devouring watermelons like heroin. I ain't no fool. Black rappers with caps in their asses, lurking in an urban masterpiece, in a shroud of Turin. Newspapers dancing in a public toilet, like eastern whores, dolled-up in make-up. Cigarette ashes masturbating to the ceaseless rhythm of carnal drumming. Become one with nature! In a concrete prison complete with designer headgear. Bitchin'. Then jump on a train to Neverland, where you can die in pieces, like an ivory-robbed flying elephant. Frank Sinatra in a Velvet Underground, jiving to Judas Priest like a deadpan shaman. Nike trainers engaged to a boogie-woogie mad-man, composing a symphony of bi-polar disorder. It's nothing personal, chaps, I just hate you. But seriously, Paul Simon attacked me while Bruce Springsteen slashed a nationalist poster, in mud-caked boots. A nine-sided cube with leering faces, warning a young Thai man (?) not to point his gun at things he can't swallow. It's dangerous. Basketball energy, hovering in a haze of misplaced lust, distinct from reality, yet integrated into some midget variation of it. A football team with prehistoric bones, humbling to the soul, but uncertain. I'm experiencing an existential crisis, like some cannibalistic spelling mistake. A young man, nineteen years old, immersed in Eels, caring too much about someone that he's never gonna get to touch. His lollipop brain fails at simple tasks, but he finds solace in jealousy. It makes the headaches easier to deal with, he thinks. I ain't no fool. I dig his failure, like a gravedigger digs a grave for a vessel of God's consciousness. It's futile, like a Rolls Royce. But the Superbowl espouses his self-doubt, shadowed by a spectrum of white light which isn't really that white. Are you reading this? Why? This far? It makes no sense? Well, boys, that's the grand delusion, the epic circus where gypsies risk their lives for something I don't, or won't, comprehend. Art Garfunkle's over there, feeling left out. It's no surprise really. After all, the peppers on aforementioned pizza make no space for extras, least of all extras with '80s perms in the '60s, like it was natural. I'm whistling like a steam locomotive, surfing on Planet Waves. Surprised by an oblivious beauty perched between your legs (my legs?) in a Platonic diorama, but then again, perhaps she's less oblivious than she appears. Wishful thinking, my friend. Nonetheless, a bone-idle beatnik finds himself the Joker in the pack while the Aces are asleep in some predicted orgy. I'm sorry.
Plumbing the depths of reality, drenched in what men call love and women label lustful harassment. A Microsoft Word spell-check lies in wait to discover some hidden flaw in your logic, and in the logic of conscious reality, which, in itself, is less worthy of attention than a game of organised sport! Or, even better, one of organised religion! It's all that same delusion, from fashionable decadence to decadent fashion, via Catholicism and enlightened intellectualism, where theories clash like armies, engrossed in something larger than life, yet smaller. Mice and shrews in a sewer, really. Scavenging.
Love itself, with a grin, laughs at you, its nature, its gender, its existence a puzzle, like a Rubik's Cube that's been solved incorrectly too many times. Immerse yourself in a personal view of reality where raisins turn to plums and prunes to bananas! A farce! A travesty! A pantomime of wailing children, and whaling children, where something is given meaning only in the process of its creation. Inhospitable and barren, like a desert or a city, if imagination reaches the lofty heights to which its denotation aspires. Humanity, well, it's a nice concept, like cake. But it often collapses in the oven like a "punished" Jew. Lashing out against prejudice is like love, because I say it is, and who's going to argue with me? Not you. Deliciously true are your impressions of reality, which is what you make of it, like Lego. But infinitely less fun. Once more, things gain significance in the process of creation. It's the crude poetry of conception to birth. An orgy of wails and hot towels. Are they necessary? Maybe? I've never done it before. Not exactly. I was literally just there one day.
Anyway, what do I know. I'm just trying to be a poet, don't I know it. It's difficult to do when you're part of a generation too accustomed to perfection to appreciate beauty. Beauty eludes us like creation, it's too important to reveal itself. Its dimpled smile penetrates the murky gloom of life, like the beautiful woman I was obviously going to personify it as. Awkwardness, or something thereabouts, mocks me (and you for that matter) from a library of incongruent notions, where love, life, death and beauty are analysed beyond recognition. So near, yet so far, like creation (not THAT again). Let's celebrate it with flowers, anyway. And CHOCOLATES! Everyone likes chocolate, except those with allergies. I don't know... The lines blur, mirage-like, in the desert of comprehension. Words frolic like gay performers, exhibiting nothing but their own shape, their own form, their own sound. And their own impotence. She is, of course, as always, like a ray of sun, a vision from the skies (to quote a better man than I). She's a bastardisation of clichés, but she's YOUR bastardisation of clichés. She's something. Something beyond beauty, the glossy conventions of which limit her existence as much as the words I mash together in animalistic contemplation. What is she? What am I? The mediocrity of existence lurches forward like a predator. It's ripe with possibility, but stranded in an ineffective limbo. The limbo of a pensioner.
But what's the deal, chaps? If people tell us life is like a flower. It's painfully natural, bestial (in its way), but it is beautiful. Beauty, that pointless addition to Darwinian existence - a paltry, yet wondrous concept, devoid of reason, which enlightens the otherwise melancholic mendacity of thought, yet simultaneously smothers it in the sort of blind, stumbling, longing, yearning searching we experience throughout our peculiar lives.
* * *
Oh dear.
What a morbid few minutes you must have just lived through. Having just dragged you by your brain lobes through a nightmarish dream world, I shall attempt to soothe you by promising that this isn't my February entry, and normal service will resume, hopefully by the end of the week.
Yup...
As you were, then...
Jamie
1 comment:
Captures perfectly the spirit of that weekend!
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