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.
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
on.
