I am so in touch with what it,
I suppose, is like to be desperate—
and, I do mean hopelessly des-
perate—in love. Romanticism be
damned; idealism be damned;
such stupid incessant oil-mixes
to be avoided at all costs. The
Montagues [hack!], the Capulets
[spit!!], the various nurses and
nephews only trying to help! My
constipated ass they are!!! Hope-
lessly fucked in a no-win situation,
completely unable to turn the right
screws [and to this he mumbles a
bit of aren’t well all?]. Pushing
the right buttons of course we all
get down so a science. The life of
a spy, the life of a queen or a king,
even and especially the goddamned
JESTER [a title to which our company
leader adds enormous decibels, as
if it were a grander title than either
king or queen; it is basically coughed
out of his throat—directly after which,
predictably, he has rolled his somewhat
hazel-pixied pupils so far back behind his
yellows that he seems pained to continue;
nevertheless]. Everyone knows that it is
at least momentarily back to business,
even if on tenterhooks. So for now
what would sound like silence to a
newcomer is actually a bombardment
of echoey gossip banging around in
each attendee's head. Some or most
may be unaware, but their skulls,
in toto, are knowingly relieved
by such reverberated headache-
inducing slam. So much so, in
point of fact, that roaches, might
they be present would most likely
be catching a bit of the conver-
sation via these echoes. Ah,
silence. Old habits dies hard;
I’ve learned from the best; etc.
And just like that, it's back to
being desperate for just a smidge
of human flesh. Never not once! But
behold, the almighty drag and swing
of Frankenstein’s newly stuffed arms,
built cold and about to crumble only a
few minutes ago, are now scorched with-
in and without, and not simply by the al-
mighty Franklin God of the induced
lightning storm, but, as time passes
toward a chilly dusk, to cool the con-
fusing emanation of heat that burns
within their own circulatory reverb.
Oh, to be desperately AND hopelessly
in love, unable to screw or button-push
in any engaging or locally and simultan
eously stimulating method. Dare I
intimate the possibility of intimacy
(this seems the appropriate spot to do
so). Desperately and hopelessly in love.
This I have known (intimately). But, during
the same season, finding oneself in his first
(and oh how utterly despicable) instance
of ALSO being utterly desperate for love;
even for the screws and buttons that often
accommodate such whimsical nonsense.
This, an overwhelming combination that,
with all the common sense one can muster,
seems an algorithm that literally necessitates
violence. It is by no means inequitable to
be positioned onto one palm-sized portion of
human flesh. To become, as such, Mister
Pincushion, who, never having a complete
termination of remorse from the one afflic-
tion, finds with the added disease a nonstop
blister-producing juggle-gouging of hot po-
tatoes so hell-bent that each night one eagerly-
picked vegetable simmers hot and then
only hotter even as it has been distributed
upon the alternative flesh of a human [this,
I can attest, reaches its full magick when the
heart-tortured company’s grotesque and mottled
tomcat’s lavish hairball, a daily hot mess, has
just arrived (and NOT metaphorically) to double-
press the steam out of the vegetables and into
the human soul. This, the idiotic magick of
love. All this. All this: Just another nonstop
reminder of the repeated inalterable movements
we who are so double-afflicted each found our-
selves in every single day. And if we recuperate
from this idealistic bullshit we learn far too late;
that we are always merely the déjà vu of a monster.
The one you'd always already become. Kindred
spirits with the immortal heaving a burden of rock
and alloy from bottom to top of the earth, every
single day the rock goes up until dusk settles, when
the burden is delivered to its appropriate destination,
only to (re)discover, on the verge of unconscious-
ness, that his innards are being dined upon like
carrion. For the rest of the night. Then, before
the sun bellies up through the blue horizon, that
it is time to head back down to the bottom of this
fiendish sphere, prepare the same burden, make
its daily delivery and reap the same rewards as the
previous night. Over and over and over again.
And this was our Don, the Caesar of all of our
immortal godfathers (emphasis on immortal?).
I mean, just take a gander at that gizzard,
folks! No don, no caesar and no immortal
would readily serve this up nightly, daily,
routinely. And yet, with nary a snake left
in his bellypot, up he goes once again. [Sitting,
as is his habit, for one brief moment beforehand,
almost laden with sense]. What’s a kiss but an
inevitable stab in the heart? What's a twirl
of our fair lady's finger in her fine kept hair
but a clump of it in some cold soup a few
moments later? You call the odds if you
want, but we already know who wins. And
that there is no cycle so odd. Yet, there will
never be one so impossible to quit until the
instant the demeaning poison finally reaches
the lips (which always is entirely too much of a
change in the conversation), am I right? This,
perhaps the only cure that might remove the
tragic cycle? We are all afflicted. It is impossible
to quit this tragedic scheme. Until, of course, we
finally learn (if we make it there—but I can most
certainly pinpoint the instant at which I received
my education). Lessons learned? Perhaps. But when
routine begs to prohibit crises of faith, it begs to toss
love to the mortally wounded coil. Then we might
find ourselves no longer fools (nor dons, nor caesars,
nor gods), but mere, redundant mortals. As for
this kind of non-love we deemed romantic and
actual? Anyway, it’s time to call in the dames.
Time to roll the dung into a slippery ball and to
get it moving on up. Got it? All hands on deck!
Let's get it on, my men. It's another night for
the dogs. Until we've completely eradicated
the scourge of hope and unscientific emotion.
