appearance in your pantyhose
there are places to go; i know, because i am going. and to go presupposes somewhere to go. i could buy a weekender’s bag, boar skin, and weekend in monaco. would you join me? think of the sights – and the soreness of our eyes. we will take them out and soak them in the hot springs. they will feel better than before when we push them back in. our vision will have melted in the heat – but what we see will be ever warm, and our deliberations more relaxed. there is nobody for me anymore. the sun has grazed my face before touching upon the easternmost peak in the new world; i have walked in the wake of the rising sun and my country has duly followed. i can never go back to the shadows now; i would die of vitamin deficiency.
you’ve never seen an uncircumsized baby blue like this. it’ll cut right up through you and enter your brain. you’ll be unable to let go. i’ll cry in pain and want to be left alone. all our desires will come into conflict and be mutually dissatisfiable. we will construct for ourselves an inconceivable world where we never keep our promises; but still we will believe each other’s every word. beat me over the head with this frying pan before i bite off your ear and string it around my neck. no, no, drop that pan to the tiles – i wouldn’t do a thing like that (wouldn’t i?). whatever happens, close the blinds so our prying neighbors will be kept ignorant of our sinister nest and unborn children. we are unheavenly, i’m afraid, and no prayer will offer salvation for such aholiness. i ain’t afraid of no lil prayer though. i’ve seen littler. and i’ve been less holy than i am now. i’ve been the least. and from there i’ve sinned again and become the leastest. i will save my monologue for the theists. they’ll understand a word or two. hear the squall and close the door and keep it closed.
let me illustrate the timid aesthete. he keeps his hands close to his body and his eyes averted skywards or towards the tips of his dainty leather brogues. he walks one foot in front of the other and each step is a controlled process. in his shoes, one must know what one is doing. there is no room for self-doubt. your vision is all-encompassing or you have nothing to encompass. a plum has been rotting in his hat for days. it looks like an overripe prostate. it must taste delicious. the aesthete would wash it down with southern sweet tea, because he has a wily side, or gin and tonic, in humility. he admires the petty treasures of others but keeps his own stones in his boots and shoots for keeps (he plays to win). his breathe has the refreshing air of self-expression, and he keeps his loathing confined the to the pulpy undertones of his drawings, long inky sketches poached from the streets of monaco or moscow, with wicked gargoyles that preen their wings in plain view on the steeple of notre dame, and diagnosed as indecent. it all rings of insanity. when it spills in the streets he laps it up with his elegant, curving tongue, which holds the precious nectar like a ladle, or more aptly, like the great ladle in the sky, the big dipper, that old folkloric lumberer in the skies, the only constellation man can know without seeing, or see without looking, as it is there, and will always be there, as fat and familiar as our mother’s belly. he ne’er writ a word of consequence, but one can always aspire. and such aspiration is boundless; it is only a matter of time until all the conditions are in place and man (re)invents the wheel. he’s giddy in a grove of roses and grinning when he swallows. all over time his influence creeps, but only the learned few could see it; it is cryptic, and written in words too absurd and beautiful for rigid modern man to assimilate, to cope with; so they pass on ignorant, as we learned few pass on ignorant to the dumb and obvious depression of modernity. since the world has had the awareness to call itself modern, the world has stayed the same, and generation after generation has beget itself a lifetime of madness in the modern world. someone calls them lost; others call them hopeless. if he had the wits he’d translate from his petty vernacular into something more romantic, (always start from the ground up) but he’d never find his way. he printed off religious pamphlets in latin and distributed them door to door in the mexican trailer park.
there will always be better nihilists than him. he will never take the practice seriously. he will never admit that he only took it up in mockery, like his gentle southern drawl, stolen from the dumb and stupid people he made fun of when he passed. who can believe in anything? what does nihilism think it is? something to believe in? hah! i’ve never believed a word in my life! i eat it all up and shit it out and sometimes it won’t even flush and i have to plunge it out. i’ve only ever learned by self-realization. do you know what that’s like? i’m my only venue for acquiring knowledge. no one can help me on my rocky path. i must take the narrow route, where only one pair of shoulders may pass. but that does not mean it shall be the murky and unpleasant path; nay, for the aesthete takes the scenic route. there are many things he’s yet to learn. what is a shape?
– pardon me for sounding trite, he says, but all i have to deny – is denial!