Clement the Intangible
The child prodigy grows older… He rejects his promising past, those stifling promises… He becomes a reactionary, he rebels and engages in obscenities… He revolts against his reactionism… And then the old wooden doors open, the harpy lets go of her perch; the sun sheds her gold like a goddess of light, impossibly generous and bountiful… Fortunate is the being that claims the sand and dirt of earth as home, drenched in beams of perfect light every hour of the day… It’s impossible!
Black Dis’ door stands open night and day, the hero keeps the beast at bay…
Fish! I told you to not be a fish! And now just look at you! Do you feel unwanted, or do you? Do you feel totally cheated? What did you want from me? What do you expect out of this? You say you just don’t understand me. You say you just don’t know what this is. Well do you want to stay, or not? Don’t stay. You are not very safe here. I can see right through you. I am drinking your soul with my heart. Milky soul. (Kissing) No – stay! Do stay. Please do stay with me. The world is meant for you and I. You are welcome in that beating belly, that giant unfathomable heart of the good son, the good lord, the fertile shepherd in the field, ambient, ultra modern, sick with a pounding headache, drinking alone in the city to keep all the bad dreams at bay.
You were dragged out of the deep by a friendly farmer’s son and fed milk from the calf’s teat, warm and frothy, while you rested. In your journal you kept a story and you hoped that one day you would be remembered as a great poet. That would require someone to find you, and to then find your poetry, and to then consider it poetry, and good poetry, and to then share that poetry, with others who consider it poetry, and good poetry, to then share with the world… But the odds have always been against us, they could never be anything but. This is the thus of it all and I’m sorry. Sleep me throughout the night and we will wake up with the sun and go shopping. I will buy you anything you like. I will spoil you.
On a moor, with the ghosts, the old farmer sat, stubborn, with a semi-automatic rifle in his lap, waiting. Just waiting. As for me, I can hardly see through this darkness, let alone this dreary mist, and these ghosts terrify me…
I spent the night alone in the loft watching pre-code Stanwyck and Brent junk and woke up early, as the sun rose, and walked down with my dog to the barn. I spent the morning cleaning it out and installing locks on the doors. I poisoned the hives of spiders and ants and sealed up the windows. By noon I was spent and I collapsed on a pile of hay. Memories swam in my head and I lived them at random; the bones in the walls, the girls in the fields, the boys in the rafters and mules in the stalls; I woke up in a cold sweat and stumbled home, where I slipped some pills down my throat and sank into a bath of cold water. Frank Borzage was a voyeur, I think, and then begin whistling a bit of the old Waylon himself.
“The inward fire eats the soft marrow away, and the internal wound bleeds on in silence.” Don’t they know about that beating belly? Haven’t they touched themselves the curious intimacy of the double sex? And in that ancient town, the lazy bardsmen wept, for they hadn’t the strength to tell even one tenth of the entire story, nor the courage to recall his poetry, that love-driven poet of God; we should be so lucky as to understand it! It is more than enigma, more cogent than the corporeal earth, more transient than light and sound.
With the simple binary opposition of being and not-being, programmers have created whole realities. Binary opposition is the fractal-like structure of the world, of all which is the case…