Feature Surrealist Writings
Calliope of Supreme Disregard
Late afternoons it began, the husk of a poet dressed only in brilliant green or shiny purple. Unfolding from behind the carnival mirror. Dissertations on neglect falling from pockets ... a wavy orange vapour around the head and mechanical extensions from sleeves made its way to the boards.
And just like the ordinary shopman, the average townman carries his newspaper in his hands as he boards the train, the poet carries his virid beating heart in his hands, making his way onto the boards ... under the hot snowy floodlights of an invented destiny ... and so much blood! Imperial gallons run black and clotted through the streets through the town through the shops unseen where poetry dies.
The townman butchers the heart of the poet and is incapable of even honest, clean, respectable vomit. Scarecrow poet, isolated in a refracted shield of light invented through purity of intent, to levitate horizontally at 4:45 pm on the angst of the crowd, invisible; it mounts the haunted calliope. Arising from a scarlet tomb to the west floats the Queen of Estranged Eunuchs, a volume of several thousand pages is carted on a black marble altar in her wake. "Bring for me the list of the oblivions," she whispers. The list appears in twenty languages out of the carnival mirror suddenly turned blackboard.
Top of the list ...
Mediocrity in twenty languages, Boredom in twenty languages, Blind Acceptance in twenty languages. On and on the list went.
Oblivion through mental opacity, oblivion through self-hatred, oblivion through suppression. All the work of the Ancient world in vain!
The Queen raised her voice: "There are times when this knowledge causes me such pain that I cannot keep from weeping, that I am filled with such a rage that I feel I must either destroy utterly or seek my own destruction."
The poet now speaks: " Oh what is the delirious intensity of visions without the weak well of inertia?
"The pearlescent glow of your feet without the filth of dark earth?"
The poet knew of whence she spoke for it connected when disconnected in acrid tunnels of concrete and crass noise, amidst resentful ticket takers and wincing eyes. No more heroes, no more "history".
The crowd against whom the dry poet had levitated at 4:45 can now be seen mounting the giant calliope ... enameled horses eyes whirl in red frozen hysteria as the calliope is overwhelmed by scores and then hundreds of racing, rioting "citizens." Steel bars bend under and wooden floorboards creak and give way. Children move in crazed by the heat. It's a festival, it's a free-for-all, it's a riot. No more heroes no more police.
"Like the time that floats in a dogs eye, Human time gone now everything passes."
Move on cowboys in the dust of time. Guns drawn against unknown odds. Days need wildness. Times are strange. Civilization is a cold monster. Hurts many more and wrongs go unrighted is the name of what goes on by beasts in power and freexs on the sidelines.
Authority the something
Right will can down
Huge dreams the means
To get through, no time remains for the communist movement. The liberty for all movement is there for the revolutionary's revolution. Democracy, surrealism, anarchism become the movement to get, become corrupt like feminism because they're impossible for the oppressor capitalist movement. Ideals are the way, the why, dogmatics achieve the phase ground it, a new and better Stalinism.
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