58. Who Will Inform Me When I am Lost?

Upon a ladder thrusting somewhere but definitely there it was 

An Angel of tenuity and yet of revolutionary pugnacity 

There she is, can you really not yet view her? - Theroigne de Mericourt, 

She was, to decide to vent blasting her way at the impossibility

Of any existence, of any compromise with any authority

Given and under such prevailing circumstances backbreaking 

Though, privately she dwelled in between 

Emotional realms and fields, unsure as she was and thoroughly ensnared 

As she was, between Jane Eyre’s over-gluttonous romantic ardours

And Ginsberg’s Howl of icy steel realism of madness 

And there it was, in between hurried studies and political meetings boisterous

If not excessively unrestrained 

Sudden moments spectacularly revealing appeared distinctly, as per what to do

And how to make her ambitions a reality for every pauper in France 

And so hesitatingly to begin, she decides to release her every imprisoned desire 

Stricken for years by droughts in her output and by crippling griefs implacable 

Releasing her every incessant rampaging self-doubt

Speaking out on her every emotion used to sink her vital waters dry 

Explaining viscerally her every twisted intention misunderstood 

Tearing out her intestines and unwinding them 

Thereby hoping to explain the elaborate natures of Man 

But, as time passed, she noticed, matters and minds changed not one jot 

Necks wrung 

Burning treasures 

Fool’s salivating their poetry mass-produced

Warhol’s Factory within which chic and high-minded crowds mingling 

Wafting out their airy words entirely irrelevant to the important matters in life

And over-dramatizing their histrionic dogmatic beliefs

Via the arts, music, theatre and literatures 

Some, as in the highly esteemed Cyrenaic School students

Espousing the highest and strictest forms of only hedonism 

In this ridiculously brief term of life on earth 

As Aristippus the Elder propounded –

The art of life is in taking pleasures as they pass

And the keenest pleasures are not intellectual 

Nor are they always moral 

If extravagance were a fault 

It would not have a place 

In the Festivals of the Gods

While others found such sentiments as filth beyond mercy

Demanding instant immediate ready-made revolution 

And revolution for the sake of it as Abbie Hoffman exploded on to us

With his antics, pranks and do-anything militancy

Free speech is the right to shout "Theater!" in a crowded fire.

There you go, Abbie!

Wise man of all times and for all generations to come

Go sound healthy advice for all humans of all temperaments 

Never mind you killed yourself though, we can quietly leave that aside

Burn it or hide it in the Department of Lost and Forgotten 

Never mind you yourself were there though too, weren’t you? 

We were young

We were reckless, arrogant, silly, headstrong

And we were right! 

I regret nothing!

Ah yes, and was that not your Final Farewell Speech unto Humanity in 1989? 

As the titanic failure of your drowning philosophy 

Slowly submerged everything you breathed, said and did into a depressing oblivion 

Submerging into an irrelevance too 

For every energy you supposed humanity released and of every opinion you taught us 

Proved to be as animatedly vital as any scattered dumb rock 

While others in this sheltered Factory are by now too wasted, too burned-out

And just plain and far, far too alcoholically inclined, to be fairly frank  

Unable to connect to the vigours of the new marching youth 

And entirely uninterested in their radicalism of the day 

And so what does move them now and only so too 

In anything in life is only to drive on and on and on

The beaten and unbeaten road 

In the clear line of path and direction of endlessness and more importantly

Driving more or less entirely aimlessly 

And all for that glorious life-affirming next bottle 

Such were the likes of Jim Morrison, Kerouac, my beloved fools 

And you may also encounter those of an entirely differing attitude and countenance

Attributes you can readily see in their grim faces

For these are of course our uber-friendly fundamentalists Moslems

Each one of them avowing to kill all Infidels asap 

And that was their message and point and purpose of their lives 

For their representations of truth is firmly unchanging 

Thereby agreeing and only in that context and sense 

With Mr Parmenides of all people

For he was after all a pagan 

But in that matter they did concur 

Saying as he once did

“We can speak and think only of what exists

And what exists is uncreated and imperishable 

For it is whole and unchanging and complete

It was not or nor shall be different since it is now, all at once, one and continuous.” 

And so, since words cannot change so too acts by men must not ever change too 

And if God, Zeus or Allah said “Do A if B is done”

So, shall it be a law of eternity

No matter what, where, why, when and how the context and act and origin sand causes 

Of B came about 

So, explained the soft-spoken man, Sheikh Osama bin Laden –

“The pieces of the bodies of infidels were flying like dust particles

If you would have seen it with your own eyes

You would have been very pleased

And your heart would have been filled with joy.

There is no dialogue except with weapons.”

Factories run by rows and rows of slaves and tombs 

Enforced by the stupidities of all the judges crippled but the elites 

Poetry written in pasts consciously or not 

Histories of antiquities 

Museums empty 

Stillness and solitude 

Hushed sublimity 

Mozart’s final Requiem 

Yet eternally undefined

Certainty unforgiving

Precisions elusive 

Sweetness

You are moments, aware and unaware 

Unities within each other and disunities woven in too 

Between mind and flesh

Abstractions and matter

Contradictions and harmonies of complementarities 

Pure simplicities and complexities from within you

Small child evolving 

You and I 

Gerbil beauty 

Coursing on in our journeys yet to end

Describing epic holocausts wherein immensities overwhelm

While yawning listeners insisting why they should ever bother with sordid affairs

Far as they are it seems from it all 

Yes, trials can be and will be assuredly beyond us as

As perpetual autumnal verdicts are declared, one by one, all and entirely unjust

Growing up and separated for decades till we are allowed to meet again 

While we are growing up

And who will be your comrade when friendly faces form now beyond recognition? 

Yes, you 

Depressed kings and candid whores can do as they wish

Gambling banks 

Fanciful journalists

What can it ever matter when power is not yours?

Roulette lives revolving

Fairly gorgeous croupiers

Lord Lucan lookalikes furtively shifting their seat

And wannabes acting glitzy and slimy groups of youngsters seeking microwaveable fame 

Ritz, 50 St. James and Crockfords too 

Dicey love-affairs

Frenetic marriages 

To you

To me

To anyone living

To anyone not living 

Eternity may resign 

And challenges may be ignored 

In this particular existence we inhabit

You inhabit in within a specific space and timeframe 

Sins and virtues have been committed

But who must die needlessly in every season 

For the hopeless causes in living life

   ??_?T?