The madwoman's face reminds one more than a little of Antonin Artaud. Under a dyed black beehive.
After the teeth came out.
The Theatre of Cruelty has not been kind. Various assaults griddled one upon another like raw emotions uncongenially served.
She has this habit of proferring her middle finger. On which is perched a garnet set in yellow gold. There are some who stoop to kiss her ring.
There are always a few in any crowd.
We circle each other on the square like vultures. Sparring between cigarettes as only institutionalized lovers will. She tells me she drinks in the Saracen's Head. I look at her and see why some drink to forget.
After supper one evening she comes right out with it.
I don't believe you're a warrior monk. That vegetarian sham is just so much pish.
One eye glittering with malice, the other dry as a raisin. She has a point. A stiletto shank, a tongue.
No one has mentioned wars. Faith. A month of Sundays shy of gorging on beef has left me weak. I have no appetite left for a fight. No stamina to quarrel. I dig my arse into the bench and light a cigarette.
She looks at me and sneers.
I can see why she has so quickly risen through the ranks. Of the sedated. Sitting there like she has always been there.
in regione caecorum rex est luscus.
Erasmus might have been a queen. Here, he is just one more Napoleon.
5 comments:
good to see you here, ib.
Andy
Hey, Andy. Thank you for stopping by to leave a comment. Good to hear from you, after what has been too long a while.
I suspect most regulars - and occasional visitors - on the bleachers are by now heartily weary of the play on the field. The lack of respite from the rain.
Well. After the drizzle comes a lull.
I am not tired. I am so goddam digitally challenged still, I have trouble navigating around. In a fit of Irish/American pique I knocked all my "blogs I'm following" instant go tos and now I'm waiting for my brother in law to help me fix everything I messed up. But I been writing boss, not like you though, it ain't in me. Artaud, eh? I have some old friends that formed a performance theatre in SF named after him, that's why I know who he was/is.
Hunter Thompson said you're a warrior monk when you say you are, you cannot be pronounced or anointed as one however, I don't believe.
Karmic Warriors are the shit ,man. We need millions of them.
Monks eat whatever is placed in their bowl and always bless those who donate.
You're alright,Ib.
Screw a bunch of stuffy old Oxforders. You have been freed.
I was catching up on your recent posts when I got waylaid by my three-year-old. Before I could leave a comment. Before I could properly digest your observations. Oh, you have it in you, Tim.
I have been avoiding current affairs of late. My head is stuck in the sand. Everything has turned to piles of smouldering shit. From one polar coordinate to its opposite in number.
I am prepared to allow Hunter Thompson just about anything. I, too, eat everything on my plate.
The word, I believe, though, is "pig".
Karmic Warriors. Ain't that the truth, brother. Armies of deserters.
The Artaud association I stole from a friend, who was riffing elsewhere. On theatres of hate. The madwoman - no crazier than me - had lived enough to be walking dead. She was a survivor, all right. We terrorized each other from an uncomfortable distance. She looked to be on close terms with the Marquis.
Sade, not Smith. We wandered in and out of each other's delusions like doppelgangers congregated in a train station.
In Siberia. Outer Mongolia.
Weird shit.
Beautiful.
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