Call me Doctor Faustus
Que Sera, Sera! Riddle me this, Articulo; art thou leastest a sinner?
-Philosophy is odious and obscure. It makes us choleric, while once we were sanguine; it is now impossible to sleep. Demogorgon, I bid you adieu.
I am very tired and tonight the stars are shining strong. I’d like to shoot each one out with a BB rifle; maybe my mamaw’s Daisy from her estate on Connecticut as a little girl riding horses through the lightning storms, or maybe my papa’s .22 like we shot out oil barrels back home. Papa never saw a lick of sense in the things I’d say so soon enough I learnt to quit saying them. I was an Alsatian mathematician on verge of something great. Before long the hounds came howling in the night and took me off into the woods. My work was too important to complete.
Lend me your ear, beautiful baby blue-lips, and into it I will whisper the most marvelous threats you’ve ever heard. You will go into heat and you will cry out of terror. Why are we always so afraid of each other? Why does everybody run around, afraid? Forgive me, for I merely speculate; but I know, for you and I, that we are most afraid.
No, no, I’m not afraid; I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m having a ball, and I’m taking you with me! What do you know about hard drugs, anyway? Have you ever been to a masquerade? Have you laid before a fireplace nude atop a bearskin rug? Or is that a bit too much for your sensitivities, and you’d rather lay betwixt the silt-black bedsheets spun of spider silk, or hide locked away inside the closet with your panties around your ankles and your hands over your face struggling not to cry? You do not cry, do you? No, you always cry… you are a sobber, and I can hear your sobs while I try to sleep. Goodbye, open window; you are forever closed. The only way to break through now is violence. I will punch my way through if I have to; I am prepared to bleed. This life is nothing to me anymore. You are nothing to me, unless you come with me, and bid your demons adieu, for I have no such remorses. I am emotional, and I am proud; my feelings are virtuous, and I can paint in vivid colours my exploits in words strong enough to inspire awe and want and titillation in my listeners… but I’m no such entertainer. I only serve to serve, and my fate is pinned up against the wall, crude as a flyer on a bulletin board, for all to see. But I will not be humiliated. I’ve got gold in my pockets. My smile is smug and only modest on the most immediate level. Otherwise I am still proud, and my blood still flows tinted with the empowering taint of nobility. One cannot deny one’s roots, and one’s roots give fruition, inevitably, to one’s destiny. So pick up the pace! There isn’t as much time as you think there is. Someone already pushed the boulder from the top of the hill. It won’t be long now until it comes crashing into the city in one apocalyptic crash. I’ll be safe in the skies somewhere. I’ll have a loyal following brushing the hair from my eyes. You never know if I am watching from my panopticon.