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BALLAD TILL THE FINAL DAWN 6 BALLADE
JUSQU’À L’AUBE FINALE
Greet the Road, man, the road
back to the secure permanence beyond life, this unstable and impermanent
chaotic existence ceaselessly whimpering under the menaces from Death. Greet
the road to beyond this non-existence where and when suffering stops, when
disease is vanquished and becomes a red flower in the barrels of our guns, when
we are finally deafened by silence and we experience full satiety in the
absence of all desires and needs.
Oh! Greet that road that leads us
to the permanent Doomsday that resonates and multiplies in our minds and
hearts, in your minds and hearts. And don’t believe Yeats or whoever sees
monsters and tigers –luminous tygers and black snakes – crawling to some Bethlehem for some Second
Coming in the treasure chest of our imagination. We are nothing but straw men
and Death will greet us at the end of the road and will eat our straw as if it
had a deep hunger for such delicatessen.
Enter Bill Direen visionary
museum of the long trip he took around the world of poetry when he fell through
the looking glass of an Alice
who was no longer a well behaved white girl but who had become the ruffian
black female tygress we all want to encounter one night in full moonshine and
daylight.
Sacrifice yourself not to God,
that’s obsolete, but to the word, to one word in particular, that word that may
arise from your lips and fall on the ground in the shape of a rose and you can
check every evening that the morning rose is withering, withered, gone and
that’s perfectly fine with me, good and healthy.
Take the spiral of the staircase
that climbs to the top of your skull and dance the Round Danse Macabre with Death,
that long never ending parade of the last migration to the country of full
absence of any wants and wills, dire straits of ACDC wavering lack of constancy
and direction that will – you know it by heart in the deepest layers of your
heart – drown Death in some kind of dizzy vertigo that will turn Him into a
mirage under the blaring sunshine.
Don’t fall into Poe’s illusion
that life has a double-edged blade, Death on one side and Death on the other
side, that there is no choice and nothing beyond birth because life is an
illusion and it will drive you crazy into the chasm of a pit and the Tantalus
of a pendulum between your eyes just behind your mind’s retina when it loses
its pupil and loosens your sense of becoming into the saddest conscience of
your being nothing else but being.
Poe had it wrong and all right at
the same time. It is all right he had it wrong because that gives me the chance
of having it right maybe not between the two edges of a sword but between the
nighty side of life and the sunny side of Death, the black sun of the other
side of the moon that I can only see in my dreams. The Death of night in the
night of Death that rolls dead into our own life at sunrise when we lose the
life of the night and wander into the Death of light that makes us creep under
some thick blanket in a dark recessful hiding place.
The teacher, the mentor, the
professor now infertile, sterile and impotent has constructed in the mind of
his students the dream of a future that maybe dedicated to singing and dancing
light. A lie to life, as unlight as the lead pulling the worm down on the sharp
hook to the school of mute fish in the stream of consciousness of the hormonal
hormones boiling in the two hot carbuncles the teens are hiding in full
display. The most beautiful dress is the one you wear when you are as naked as
the nude king parading his flesh around.
Don’t believe, poet, you can make
man any different from what God has made him, in his image for sure, frail and
weak like a moaning slug under the wheel of the car that flattens it into the
tar of the road. Indeed God is all weak and frail like his creature and if he
were to find himself in front of a car, a tank, a plane or a snow plough he
would meet with total annihilation and oblivion. Good riddance and let’s worship
dragons that have the fire of hell in their mouth.
Ands that’s just the rub of
Hamlet and so many others. How can you live in this world when the life inside
yourself is nothing but a dead end, a dead sigh, a deadened whisper without any
language to give it any meaning or sense. We are forever mourning the lethal
life that wounded us with its memory of the corpse we will be too soon to even
hope we have time to dream of another end. Let’s move man along the road. The
mental looters of our brains are coming like some devouring emptiness that let
us vanish in the void of nothingness.
And old age only gives us Death
as a bonbon to suck on while you are having erotic visions on your tongue and
the looters are pealing your hide to recuperate your skin graffiti they call
tattoos and then feed their dogs with your bones. The divine sin of the skin
that you may lose under the blade of these raiders is leaving you sinless in
your flesh, sinless in your dripping blood.
That’s love man, that’s the
passion of the dependence you long for every morning and you manipulate every
night when the hunt has not been very productive. You can always put some alien
shape in your hands that only exist under your skull in the storm that erupts
there every night of forced sexlessness. And that is no fictive pain, young
man, that is no pain at all because pleasure is in this exquisite surrogate
manipulation of your dendrites.
Sex anyway is prostitution and if
it is not sex it is dope which is Death in the hands – if they have hands – of
all the protozoa that haunt syringes, lurks in the dark corners of your veins,
exploring your weak points to take over the silly resolve of yours, not to last
too long on this planet and at least to live the little time you accept to be
here in a full cloud of mist and fog, smoke and dust. Don’t worry! The protozoa
have a good friend that reaps souls like others reap corn and he will visit you
as soon as you have the tumor that can speak his language.
The innocent maid’s child of poor
Hopkins becomes
the vicious maid’s son who has found his virile perversion in the prick he was
already nursing galore in his maiden mother. No prick had visited her from
outside, she said, but one prick would visit her and come out of her soon
enough, out of the suddenly hermaphrodite maiden. You can for sure yell Mayday
in all directions, that will not solve the oxymoronic antithetic nature of a
child born from virginity like the sad echo of the blissful blessed sacrilege
of extreme belief of that poor maid who never saw the priest or high-priest
come up to her while she was weaving the veil. And that was no Salome weaving
her seven veils, but only an old perverse rotten priest who took advantage of
girls just for the fun of hearing them purring under his caresses.
Now welcome to the solitary
sanctuary of a poetess who could only hear flies buzzing around and could not
say a word. But she could write a few and she did in the absolute secret silent
her own father imposed onto her till his Death. She confronted to the cold
surface of a mute world her suffering encapsulated into the transparent crystal
you can only experience in frigid sterile sexless locked up emotion that can
never finds the proper sighs to come out in the open.
And a poet who had a lot to do
with Brooklyn Bridge
and Pocahontas just entombed that poor silent poetess under one clay-cold hill
just as if she were Chernobyl
revisited. That poet was perched at the top of his sheerlegs, his dongle
dangling in between and regretting that suffering silent poetess who died
before he could even show her the magic of sex. He had Pocahontas of course,
but she was nothing but a christened painting in the hall of that Congress he
did not exactly revered.
Speaking of Tome, the aging and
senile getting Goethe is chanting melodramatic nostalgia on Rome and the Romans while he is enjoying the
full comfort of his political and powerful position. How easy it is to be a
great poet when you are living in the silk of an embassy or in the velvet of
some parliament. You can even imagine Prometheus being punished for his daring
rejection of silk and velvet in the name of flesh and human orgasmic blissful
thrills. And the rape by the eagle every day is the best experience he has ever
experienced apart from playing mastermind and magician. Poor Goethe lost in his
ivory tower of an abandoned Sturm und Drang.
Luckily I have no account to
settle with the poet who turned fascist without really knowing why and has been
plagued by human disgust since then. What really made him aspire to become the
master of the castle of some Italian Salo as if torturing the young flesh of
some still virginal boys and girls was the mature pleasure of an idealistic and
spiritual mind.
But of course we have to get lost
in metaphysics with some metaphysician poet who describes the eye – or is the I
– as if it were a mirror and in which you can see your own reflection looking
at you as if you were the reflection of this reflection, as if you were
mesmerized and hypnotized by the small image in the pupil of the escrier,
upside down on the retina of the beholder, but which one is the beholder and
which one is the escrier, which has the real flesh of the image and which one
only has the image of the flesh? Who cares anyway since there is nothing but
imaginary contact for the flesh and skin deep illusion for the fleshless image?
It is nothing but onanism and company in a non-existent material world whose
materiality is a riddle for new-born babies who have not yet uttered their
first cry.
And there you meet the only real
emotion that is worth dying for, the Death of a child before breathing in and
then out his first mouthful of vital air. The soul of that child cannot even
fly away since she – or is it he? – will never have its last breath because it
never had one first inspiration in spite of all the poetry it had heard and
enjoyed in that warm cocoon out of which it has just stepped with only one
destination, the warm darkness of a tomb where it will play gaily babbling a
silent lisp.
And think of that mother who gave
birth to that still born child and who in fact took the big dive into oblivion
along with the child so that the child never knew the cruelty of life and the
suffering of survival. The two went down through the air from the top of some
crane-like hill, the mother rocking her baby who will never breathe into
eternal communion with its maker.
The child is the projected image
of an image of oneself for the schizophrenic procreator who thinks he is god
because he is able to lose all sense of reality in the short moment when he
meets this little Death that can make him able to survive his own Death in the
survival of that image of the image he had in mind when he enjoyed his small
little moment of oblivion. Remember the mirror zone of the metaphysical poet of
old and the image in an eye that is the reflection of the image of that image
in the eye of the beholder escried by the beheld.
In that narcissistic play of
mirrors the self locks itself in the other who is nothing but the mirror and
echo chamber of its own howl, that deep and never ending Death cry that vanishes
when the poet looks at his own inner void, at his own mental chasm as if the
universe were some silently lamenting crowd running into some stone wall that
refuses to clear the mess of human violence and cruelty. The skullcap of this
poet is so big it could crown the earth, or maybe even the sun, provided that
earth and the sun were as real as the storm that is raging under that skullcap.
I looked at I and I sees only a phantom of I that I imagines as
being I’s
real I.
I
is delusional and I imagines I is filled with some kind of erotic phantasm, sexual
desire, hormonal fancy for an I knows not who that is prancing in front of I’s eyes and
erecting I’s
own inner looming craze for that I knows not who I is imagining on I’s desert island or is it desert
sand waste? And that’s how I ran behind I’s own hunger for sex and thirst for sexual fluids
till I
spat out all I’s
own fluids and fell exhausted on the ground in the hands of the sex police of
the gods. After that crazy waltz of the little dog running after his own prick
that I
was taken to some desert island for sure and tied up to some palm tree because
there is always a palm tree on a desert island and there he was delivered to a
couple of dragons, a male and a female, and after something like two years and
a half I
was still hanging there devoured in the day time and recovering in the night,
devoured by the two dragons down to the bones and then recovering with the fire
the two dragons blew down his gullet? Magic has no ending in that world of
Grecian mythology rediscovered and recycled by Goethe or some other Blake.
So we can come to the tree that
is standing alone in the dark-tinted heart of the night, in the dense heart of
the shade and in the very centre of the wind. It is the axle of Blake’s
spindle.
The heart is close to implosion.
The outside skin is just seen from inside and felt inside out from wrapping my
own fist like a glove to the phantom ghost of an inside captured from the
outside by the eye mesmerized by the dark imprint of its dense hand on that
inside shady skin that is dancing shadowlike in the exhausted sunshine thus
wrapped up on itself and casting its light onto its own outside inside the cage
abandoning the whole great eternity in total night and darkness. The poet can
rumble back into sleep with his own psychosis.
The last stage on this road you
are supposed to greet is just before the Death camp in Poland and the poet
predestined to that fate can enjoy the sadness of knowing you are dead before
actually dying and enjoying that Death that proves your life. The last image of
this trip is that of a cotton skin-shroud that hugs you with the welcoming heat
and light of the Death you will finally reach in a few hours or a few days. You
will then cross the portal that cast no shade and enter the light of that
everlasting life in Death.
And as you cross that portal
another psychotic poet can shriek his yodeling creamy yodels that are dancing
in mid sky happy and joyful now the trip is over and the haven of the silence and
total lack of any requisite exigency in the fully dark and black light of this
supernatural virtual dematerialized existence in a world of invisible,
unreachable electrons, neutrinos, clear positrons and bashful anions.
Blake’s Great Eternity is finally
home in me and me in it. The poet has reached the completion of his mission. He
has led his own mind to the restful abode of the silent enlightened cosmic
energy that merges life into Death and virtual mind into real remembrance.
Jacques COULARDEAU
# posted by Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU @ 2:38 PM