Saturday, October 25, 2014


BILL DIREEN, the troubadour of yesterday next week



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.


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