Vol. 6 Table of Contents


by Jimmy Warner 1993

Author's note: there was hardly an Internet let alone video and streaming live video
at the time I wrote this, however, I immediately assumed there would be, even before this poem.
See volume 19, Sci-fi poems, some ideas from the 70's.

definition: Nympholeptos - Seized by a nymph, or passion, unattainable goal
This poem is vaguely inspired by Robt. Browning's Numpholeptos

Videos zip down with casual hands, a raking of fingers, flouncing of breasts, grab-ass guys want bellies and thighs, fake passions unauthorized; no sexual technician, no live film expertise, no surrogate directors pointing the way to orgiastic art Frenzy.

The role of musician is to touch his people with magic.

The role of an artist is to bring that energy home.

The role of musician is to reach an impossible high.

The role of an artist is to turn that life force on.

Git it.

Some level of emotion is an unattainable goal

but you hit it. Yeah.

Nympholeptos is that what you call it?

Nympholeptos is THAT what you call it?

Nympholeptos that's what you call it,

Late night videos.

When your forebrain gets too saturated or radiated by super VGA,

a god-like, colored screen comes on to you,

discovers you like a yud-hay-wah-vay telling you who you are;

stimulation of a higher mind function, God consciousness?

Follow the spiraling video road, it's your life. A purpose consistent with all coincidence, calls itself your own.

Direction is a locus of points where lots of discoveries are made:

a life path crossed every minute,

a life path fostered every minute,

a life path exhausted every minute,

lost in cosmic over-structure, flapping, rolled up on a musty shade.

The world is one big video looking like a brain of hemispheres with spiritual zones of Midgard forced underground where brotherly love is twisted into terrorist camps.

I see this network of endangered neurons scheduled for psychotropic therapy

where no-one wants to hear the raving demands of punk-classical allegories pandering to boomer nightmares, or those cool, new-age ironies of doomsayers,

too much in touch.

They say that no-one wants to think because you can't sell thinking.

Hope is sinking fast.

The town ... of mass amnesia goes shopping, but just doesn't see.

If a place on the map has a train to stop some Dostoevski midnight,

don't clamor aboard hoping to bribe your way to the world order.

The new moon rattles all your scorpions, draws on desert dreams and dragons where love is a fighter without any folklore.

Is it down enough and dirty?

Is everything coming from everywhere else like so many points on the belt of Orion that end up being you?

I give up, is it all of you who outlast love,

you in video fire and lace, rimmed with icy silver,

like Titian's lute, playing the color of wild petals,

dashed off in a light rain of notes? (like Beethoven writing outdoors)

* Same as idiopathic, everybody's heard about it, but no one knows what it is.

Enter the choke-chain Dominatrix
and the slumlord of protoplasm essential to her sexual hell; flesh hater, boxed in cyber-sense, flexing her diskette, making Hubert Selby Jr. remarks.

Ring a bell? Saliva bells? Extinct and cream white as a bone my telephone rings again with you in far out Virgo's mental romance,

that whatcha call it, nympholeptos, future's audiopathic* death dance.

Hearing confirmation that I hear, synaptic interfaces in the lurch, too much in touch by separate seizure, grab-ass notions of bellies and tits become virtual leisure, nympholeptos frenzy, unattainable goal, just playing one musician's role whose artist's voice has one more comical choice to make:


to comb you flat-out @ flatland dotcom, meet you video to video unrehearsed, & suppress the on-screen, nymphoid smoke, or scrape rejected culture off of you, dine at Cezanne's place-settings and exhume that flat mountain of you, down-link flesh and choke-chain redness, repaint your pink and teal memories and let you chafe in artificial light each half second I regress along your frail capture of me, nympholeptically, field by field, electrically scanned right down to your sweet button-press, God.

a view of Mont St. Victoire by Cezanne

Undo me, fighter, vid shooter, leave no astrological record crucial to my winging-off through CD Romulan, space coordinates;

I'm down, uncloaked, sitting with my video and vanishing points, thrust by this illusory grid back to a mental birthplace that I think of as my seat of God, frontal lobes of lonely chatter, the only love in which I matter,

regardless what some people say, who grind out facts and figures like a salt mill at sea bottom.

Shoot new gods or goddesses, hawk your virtual, video romp; chew on gnarly, vitamin roots and work your fairy-tale pomp.

On every shear cliff I come to, at the edge your abyss, I count up the bare glyphs your videos measure me with.

My time is like a metronome rehearsing for a voice that you may never want to hear, reading fortunes that make you disappear, soft, indulgent verses no musician ever sings; but then you've heard this jingle before.

Blue winging, preferring late videos, nympholeptic people

say all kinds of things

to bring that energy home. to turn that life force


Vol. 6 Table of Contents

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