Monday, January 24, 2005
Werther peered into her with Love’s endoscope. Her complexity had been intoxicating to him; infuriating; maddening, even, were he not already mad. He imbibed her scent, and she reminded him of Eve; of Sin, she reeked redolent; but also, of Wilde. The Aesthete has usurped God, he glibly mused; but underneath it all, he hoped to have placated them both. He knew Wilde would have to appreciate the double-entendre, at least. She had been a pliant vessel, albeit of a different kind; and now, singularly a vessel for his own self-expression, his ambition had quite exceeded her. He had nailed her on the table; he had nailed her to the table. A not altogether innocuous slip in the Freudian mode; but he had conceived it, and it would conceive for him - if not the seed of his ego, then the fruit; the raw fruit, nonetheless. It was an immaculate conception; a deceptive imitation; a perversion of convention, thought He. The ideal invitation. And what could have been more perfect? God had no rejoinder. Wilde would have had, undoubtedly; but Wilde was presently preoccupied by Death. And so it was: their dialectical dynamism; his perpetual, motive dynamo - not one, but two voices, inside his own head! He could hardly believe his good fortune; but of course, in acquiescing to providence, God could all-too easily have mastered him; and thus, he did not: he would remain his own life’s work - the self-realised anti-Christ - and his fortune would lie among the sundering of sums.
"Your cup runneth over, my damnèd darling."
And with a ritual flourish, the aberration was complete. His mortal sum had been sundered; his soul-burden, divorced from its context, soared heavenward. The catharsis of this exorcism was real: at long last he rose, unencumbered by remorse; that infernal artifice, so debauched in its conception, but among the preserve of a malign symbiosis which was blissfully no more. Of course, the sin he smelt had been his own. She had loved him too much for him to let her live, and he had loved her too much to permit her to go on loving him; she had loved him for a mortality he could not possibly bear - an extraneous cross, centuries in weight. With ritual precedent, she would die, but his spirit could rise alongside hers; he would die with her, that she should not endure the eternity of an afterlife, alone. The last nail had been the hardest to strike, for the both of them; her heart burst open, and heartbreak had killed her figuratively, inasmuch as it did literally. But it had been a mutual self-sacrifice. She was at peace now; his soul as her protégé, and her complicity would not be forgotten.
"Your cup runneth over, my damnèd darling."
And with a ritual flourish, the aberration was complete. His mortal sum had been sundered; his soul-burden, divorced from its context, soared heavenward. The catharsis of this exorcism was real: at long last he rose, unencumbered by remorse; that infernal artifice, so debauched in its conception, but among the preserve of a malign symbiosis which was blissfully no more. Of course, the sin he smelt had been his own. She had loved him too much for him to let her live, and he had loved her too much to permit her to go on loving him; she had loved him for a mortality he could not possibly bear - an extraneous cross, centuries in weight. With ritual precedent, she would die, but his spirit could rise alongside hers; he would die with her, that she should not endure the eternity of an afterlife, alone. The last nail had been the hardest to strike, for the both of them; her heart burst open, and heartbreak had killed her figuratively, inasmuch as it did literally. But it had been a mutual self-sacrifice. She was at peace now; his soul as her protégé, and her complicity would not be forgotten.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Inside Picture
I sold myself a picture-perfect
Portrait of your Soul
Hung it on my inner wall
You held me in your thrall
Your words were none to speak of
And your mind was hardly there
Sweet nothings so substantial
Lest the truth be all laid bare
And so I loved between your lines
And so you lived inside my mind
And so I never drew the line
Until...
Convictions hazy like the Moon
Refracted through a mist
The Sun was nowhere to be seen
The truth did not exist
Your mute visage spoke volumes
Of a noise behind closed doors
I suffered the deficit of the doubt
But the benefit was yours
And so you hid behind your lines
And so I lived inside my mind
And so I never drew the line
Until...
Between your lines
And in my mind
I find
We are
Unkind
Outside these lines
And on your mind
Sweet nothing’s
All I find
Throughout my mind
Between your lines
My plans are
Undermined
And to my mind
I’ve come to find
I am
No longer
Blind.
I sold myself a picture-perfect
Portrait of your Soul
Hung it on my inner wall
You held me in your thrall
Your words were none to speak of
And your mind was hardly there
Sweet nothings so substantial
Lest the truth be all laid bare
And so I loved between your lines
And so you lived inside my mind
And so I never drew the line
Until...
Convictions hazy like the Moon
Refracted through a mist
The Sun was nowhere to be seen
The truth did not exist
Your mute visage spoke volumes
Of a noise behind closed doors
I suffered the deficit of the doubt
But the benefit was yours
And so you hid behind your lines
And so I lived inside my mind
And so I never drew the line
Until...
Between your lines
And in my mind
I find
We are
Unkind
Outside these lines
And on your mind
Sweet nothing’s
All I find
Throughout my mind
Between your lines
My plans are
Undermined
And to my mind
I’ve come to find
I am
No longer
Blind.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Purgatory
Love made me a masochist
Your face to see, but not to kiss
All I ventured, nothing gained
This martyr'd heart’s recourse was pain
Love brought me to purgatory
Attending existential bliss
You’d feign make me a sanctuary
Then turn me into the abyss
A means to end
Is all I seek
And so,
Skewer my heart
With forked tongues
That singular art of
Plural sums
Becomes you well,
but heed this:
No ends justify
Your means
While means without ends
Are simply,
Mean.
Capiche?
Love made me a masochist
Your face to see, but not to kiss
All I ventured, nothing gained
This martyr'd heart’s recourse was pain
Love brought me to purgatory
Attending existential bliss
You’d feign make me a sanctuary
Then turn me into the abyss
A means to end
Is all I seek
And so,
Skewer my heart
With forked tongues
That singular art of
Plural sums
Becomes you well,
but heed this:
No ends justify
Your means
While means without ends
Are simply,
Mean.
Capiche?
Well, Kerry: seeing as you asked...
Jazzanova - That Night
Something's coming over me
Haven't been the same since that evening
That I put eyes on you
Filled me with life's changing feeling
Now it's all a memory
Where you are, is a mystery
I'd do almost anything
To get back to that night.
I miss you
I wish that you were here, with me
It felt so true
But it only happened that night
Only that night.
Instant chemistry
Something like a spiritual connection
You felt it too
That's why your body came in my direction
Was it all a dream?
Since then your face I haven't seen
I'd do almost anything
To get back to that night.
I miss you
I wish that you were here with me
It felt so true
But it only happened that night
Only that night.
Why do you have to be so far away?
Wish I could be with you every day
Was it real, or was I imagining things?
I'd do anything, anything
To get back to that night.
And yes: I do; every single time.
Jazzanova - That Night
Something's coming over me
Haven't been the same since that evening
That I put eyes on you
Filled me with life's changing feeling
Now it's all a memory
Where you are, is a mystery
I'd do almost anything
To get back to that night.
I miss you
I wish that you were here, with me
It felt so true
But it only happened that night
Only that night.
Instant chemistry
Something like a spiritual connection
You felt it too
That's why your body came in my direction
Was it all a dream?
Since then your face I haven't seen
I'd do almost anything
To get back to that night.
I miss you
I wish that you were here with me
It felt so true
But it only happened that night
Only that night.
Why do you have to be so far away?
Wish I could be with you every day
Was it real, or was I imagining things?
I'd do anything, anything
To get back to that night.
And yes: I do; every single time.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Stuff you probably shouldn't say to a Hooker - #1:
'Now, once more - with feeling!'
'Now, once more - with feeling!'
Monday, January 03, 2005
"Life begins at Uni, and then again at forty. So, look on the bright side: with that many lives, probability dictates you'll have sex at least once."
