With the subtle involuntary eyes
of vast
curiosity,
polite though
only but vaguely moral,
accidental
panopticon -
bearing witness
to the better potential
of our
all too human song
rising constantly like
that of
cicadas,
rudely interrupted
by a prurience,
it's a lust for power
its hunger for the rose,
(making of me a dangerous muse);
and this is a
collective noun – a prurience –
of such busy determined
creatures,
creatures
that here will be dubbed
peeping
Tomasina and peeping Tom,
Faustus and Faustina,
and,
for the sake of the pleasure
of saying 'game's up!',
Buttercup:
criminal minds
these shadows pleasure with their absence,
bent on devising
many
a complex and visceral persecution,
these characters,
their envy,
maketh of virtue a malefaction
truly
challenging
infinitely more reasonable
philosophical
phlegmatic
thinking.
They are
gignomai nonetheless.
The
agonism and longing
any iota of their presence,
which is mental
torture,
brings about
is their only boon;
wrung from
terse
and repeated
isometric gritting
of teeth and
silences
contracted from
protracted biting of the tongue,
after
compassion has been milked dry,
wrung from the indignant
imagination,
from the rebelling mind,
no stranger to
trauma,
to the basic aporia,
in the anguished “why, why, why!”
–
wrung dry from
all this drips this last drop
of
exasperated wish,
a decidedly fanciful desire,
for some
kind of solution,
some lightening bolt
epiphany from out of the
blue.
Therefore,
about them there
angry memories of
these almost phantasmagorical people;
there be
placed,
shining like a silver lining,
this most sanguine
hope:
that,
by virtue of
the offended milieux,
cognoscenti of the sacred difference
between all which neutralises
their shows of good and evil,
gathers
some sanely arcane
collective force
of utter utter
maturity,
a benefaction of the sublime
circumscribing and
culminating in
a wonderful
overwhelming spell,
a spell which
facilitates
these hypocritically
counter-intuitive
blindly
categorical types
to actually find each other
on their walk,
literally to meet
eye-to-eye
purely because
they deserve each other.
Imagine
the
contraction of
the sudden confronted shyness of
the quality of
the blinking startle of
surprise -
lens to fleshy
lens
their cynicism slain
In
One
Fell
Swoop ...
(Harpy feathers fly)!
Where then will they try to hide,
scuttling from the
pull,
the cognitive dissonance,
of their unexpected imminent
coalescence, and
the shock of misanthropy,
nurtured for so
long it is habitual,
as it dislodges and sloughs.
What blessed
hiatus this
for the rest of us
Whose every breath
has been demonized
if us there be, and
whom I these
days
hardly believe in -
hope for the existence of -
feel the
intimations of.
Imagine the sweetness
as Fate's
irresistible sweeping rip
draws their mean heat seeking selves
completely out to sea,
latched firmly upon each other:
it
will
not stop,
will not
retreat back to shore
like the
predictability of tides;
what they have ignored
being of a
greater potential than that
twisted semblance of power
which
their constant transgressions and
aggressive spiritual-powerful
alter egos perversely project,
then aspire to harness,
and
control,
beyond what their manifold lack of respect
could even
begin to think to dream of.
It will subsume their
demagoguery
in pure molten irony.
How
helpless they
their disbelief landing them
in that
pocket of reality.
How seemingly cruel
in our heady relief,
the knowing watchers-on
I hardly believe in
pained no
more,
indulging in
the very great pleasure,
the final
luxury,
of the last delighted laugh,
enjoying
a certain
quality of bemusement :
many a lip-twitching
sotto voce
observation,
antithesis to their obsessively
overzealous
manipulations
of the gift of our
joyful sensual moral
commonality.
While drowning
in that moral ocean,
after
their mutual discovery of
each unfathomable
perplexity of too
similar other,
while lost in the wry contingency
of the
facts,
suffering such consequences of subjective asymmetry,
as
were wrought by their vengeful
abject self pity,
perhaps they
will find forgiveness,
humility,
and a particular apex of
humanity they,
with their construct of eye,
could
have,
ultimately,
been born to see.
For now
they
regressively flounder upon
shoals of more reasonable
dynamics of personhood where,
sacred and simple,
respect
juts conspicuously,
a snagging rock,
most threatening to
their
impunity.
Only, I fear,
in the best of their
fetish-based
ideals of what ought to be,
fantasies and claims
which could
never suit you,
my Love,
or me,
and within moral interiors
full of premises
supporting cultures of appropriation,
and in
approaches,
justified in their intellectual worlds
constructed
from nothing
short of ulterior motive,
excusing the various
realities they
convince themselves of,
ideologies constructed
in order to dominate,
all their arguments
every postulate
only
so
as to perpetually compensate.
Realities in which they 'allow'
no
agency but
a voodoo-doll idea of 'other',
and whatever the
resentment is
that comprises this image
that 'we' represent ...
If there is a 'we'
All-Things-Good forbid
that this be merely
my own paranoiac fantasy!
If this is actually the case
then here is my angry testimony.
It thrives on pernicious
and dedicated
sabotage,
burning needles of envious intent
leaving but a
shriven smidgen
of our own innocuous pleasures,
whereupon they
'grace' us
with their intrusions,
accuse our self's quick,
the
intimacy of our very sensations
of being but a thief's touch,
and
so seek to practice their especial
self appointed 'veto'
upon
our every decision.
You know the type,
you feel uncomfortable
with the very idea,
not to mention the strong impression,
that
they might be thinking about you
at any one moment in time.
In
actuality
the result of all this
is that they merely
manifest
as a
rat-tat regular event of ideological profanity,
Chinese-water-torture brand of insanity;
but nonetheless
it is only in
these places
that they inhabit
can any site can be
found
ground be cleared
reasonably expected to yield
the
latent fruit of their humanity.
Though pretending to
help,
their narcissistic righteousness
sticks them fast
in
patterns of derogatory methodology,
it creates a parasitical
loop,
Möbius strip treadmill.
Caught up thus for the
while
in this poisonous hypocrisy,
their brand of love,
its
pundit-flavoured cooing
celebrating the dullest kind of
clever,
their greed surely would resign itself,
eventually,
to stronger redemptive forces
pertaining to the
traceries
remaining,
of their ultimately unavoidable
innocence.
They are jaded now,
but perhaps the poignant
best in them
will be reawakened
by this hoped for meeting
-
for what it is worth
it must be remembered
that we wish
them to meet
eye-to-eye
and for each of their
belated
realisations to spill free,
to make for a fertile
ferment,
compost of mistaken,
misguided ideas and grotesque
ironies,
ending up blessedly breaking down
around hungry new
growth:
the solitary composing eye.
It is that which has been their dearth all along.
But these themselves
are ideas of ideals,
platitudes implying desperate appeals
against the
implacable folly,
layers of delusion,
the visceral
eyes,
signalling their obtrusion.
Either way
real or not-real
story or not-story,
this is but my ire
boring
but real enough;
this turmoil
in which we are all embroiled
of psychic energy
where
shock
unravels itself
in bewildered introversion
and these
at their most mistaken
are but transient beliefs
at
best
becoming in their own right
art
from out of agonism.
Thus, the pieces
upon the board
i shall turn
such that they
face
each other.
