We have been saddened, bludgeoned, scraped roughly with a slab of the asphalt of his wankiness in the soul, to face the wake of a horrifying gift of this man. It is making for sinisterly undulating waves of an appauling and thuddingly impotent present. The winds of the change that blow the sails of this vessel are the desires and loves of man`s, and specifically man`s, specifically this man`s, failure to love things. Love his face. Love his inner nature, his wholeness, his mummy, – our planet. – The sun god, his kind. Women.
As females made from male human and the extractions of horse females arrested in the cycle of life giving, having broken open this cycle again, having unconquered our selves from our selves, redisciplined him, unslaved the master with the benevolent eyes and the undue compassion of his beast, we can all mend this broken man. Heal him. He can be the healed, mended, – (though perhaps overamended in the first place)- mended man. We`ll put him right. We`ll show him truth – truth that does not rely on a sneer and a squirm. Lest he disappear, quagmire like, into the black innerworlds of it, we`ll squeeze him out of that suit like a tube of toothpaste we will. We`ll hang ourselves towards him with the temptation of a kiss, of the enlightenment of self-connection, of the glowing below skin, of his true grounding. We`ll invite, but coecre, but invite, him to hearths of healing fire and touch. We`ll see him through. We`ll put our arm over his shoulder. We`ll leave him wandering, entranced in miasmae of the sight of the inimicable beautiful. We`ll make sure he gets home we will.
We can talk him through, we can coax him, hold him over the shoulder to see beauty through the crystal strength of his own crying eyes. We can find a way to allow, that he, finds his own way, home. We can make him ejaculate wonderfully and with lasting, efflourescent passion – unlike what befit his bang-snap explosions of truncated woe – which we will use as examples to remind him on a path to true lasting ecstasy- ecstasies that will go on for days if not weeks, rendering him thus incapacitated to otherwise fan his flames of self-disgust, gestate the pestilence of mind that is sweeping our lands in his heaving – like a big choking cow – at the triumphs of the more adequately deferred dreams, the writing of putrids, the podcasting of the chronicling of the fatally illusory, as befits the things he wants to tell us on the radio and on the television and sort of in person and always on a keyboard in his attic. We will rape him with grace in our rites of counter-oedipal and polyharmonious distress. His rapture in this benign insurrectionary rape may cure the stiff tendrils proliferating all over his body: the pointed finger to the upturned nose on his face, via all. Including his willy of course, delightfully bald, like a small, dearestly alopecic little vole.
We will polish him. Massage his furrows away and hold back his fringe and be proud, with an affectionate blow to the shortened fluffs as they return askew in the manner of a cub`s awkwardly blossoming mane. He will love us, for we will love him like his mother – unconditionally, like a rose to the breast. Thorns bleed for but pin pricks and so we will love him. We will love him. We will love him with the startling confections his mother denied as so he will love us more. Oh! He will love us. He will love us with the despondency of his fallen eyes, that reconcillatory failure that sleeps sound. He will sink slowly in a puddle of huge mourning, oh, such huge insurmountable mourning. For how, like the amorphous magma at the centres of the world and within us all, how in his sadness the insides of him melt, merge together and heal.
He will sink into his mourning like a cast of a cold human arm made of lard set upright in a frying pan, and we will watch, curiously and detached, as decides to either melt with us, like this pleasure, or burn itself gloriously with the brio of it`s own overwhelming stupidity. We will mend the healed man into a sea of lipidual chaos, speckled with the flames of a marsh fire- his bulgingly pregant tears of overgrownedly nascent shame.
As women healed pearlescent from the grit of his sutures we will, with the magic of this dribbled dirt, heal, with an unstitching of all his breaking, invasive amendments, mend again the mended man. Or, should it be that only through his violence we have left the world sooner, he shall only have cast himself, lastingly and finally into a pit of molten fire, to be, as he wanted – a rock! forever cold, hard and lonely, and hard forever, and ever, and ever.
Hey there`s this on Saturday First of Aprill Two Thousand And Seven-Teeen
Hosted by Wood Pidgeon Mark Andrew Wood Pigeon Hamilton,
For General Audience’s April edition, a group of Montréal-based musicians will give an inner look via both performance and discussion of works that have in turn inspired them. Part gig, part oral presentation, ‘Music Makers and the Music That Made Them’ will pull back the curtain on creative process, performance, and inspiration.