The Gods of Old
For Diane W.
Hear me, for I know that one can still hear the Gods of Old
In the nether reaches of ambience manipulation
Walk the path of the lesser field of vision, where the directions are cold
Where up is the color of dark matter, and down is a station
Spinning out of control in orbit around a distant moon
You think me mad? I am giddy with the light of hurried thoughts, just dandy
There is an access point, where the walls of perception are soon –
…parted, and inside the circuits are coated with cotton candy
Reason and science are the red wires you need to sever
The bomb is ticking, be mindful of the past as it pertains to the future
For the mites are self replicating and incestuous, you will never –
…be rid of them, once you catch the thinking bug. The vulture –
…is circling on the concrete desert where only metal cacti grow
Forethought and self-reflection have killed mankind’s ability to see
Can you hear the screeching tires of oblivion’s violin bow?
It rides the nerves at the highest pitch, an octave beyond eternity
They will tell you that the whisper of God, hides in the minds of the insane
But I tell you that it is literature and writing that is madness of the masses
Give them idols and they will thank you, Shakespeare gives them pain
I have lost the thread of my mind’s contentment, like my glasses –
…I’ve swapped them for the contact lenses of the scholar’s eternal doubt
The faculty of deep carrots imbedded in the soil of the Good Earth
Has been atrophied in me, but I have found the hidden shout
That scream into the darkness of the quarks and the flavored compact disk bliss
I have seen it, hiding in the nooks and crannies of the navigator’s maps
Take a stroll with me, and I will take you to a girl in a short skirt ready to kiss
She’s full of life and vigor and she’ll dance atop a bottle of your Schnapps
Drink your fill, taste the Kool-Aid, but be dangerous and volatile, twist and turn
The navigator must be possessed by such angels as to know his touch
It is difficult to race back in time to get the gift of the Gods to return
Kick him in the balls if he squirms too much
Don’t complain if you are like the vast majority of the mass of conscious men
Don’t come crying to me that the Gods do not know your name
Don’t tell me, I am atavistic and beyond the horizon of the lucid den
Of monstrous hacks who logic quack and play the reason-rules silly game
I am the unexploded insanity of the darkest reaches of coffee in outer space
I am the vast amounts of sleep mother warned you about back when you were nine
For I am the dream walker, I wear silk stockings and I powder my French face
Will-power will set you free from the domain of the internet registry’s evil sign
The polished mirror conduit of a like febrile mind
Can you see the cards as they fall flat on the wet with dog urine floor?
Take a hike up the path of most resistance, scream at the lamp posts, get behind –
…the police officers as they arrest the innocent whore
Art is in the illusion of the aesthetic dictatorship of the pretty nuclear bomb
I have a gripe, and it is as reasonable as doublethink
Take the pain as fuel, and when you feel finally strung-out on the heroin and numb
Prick your eyes with the needles of Zen and Christ, and as you cry blood and bile
The stereoscopic interdisciplinary cultural vision will come on its own
A kind of kaleidoscope show, cockroaches playing poker, a lack of rhythmic style
Watch out for the doctor in the blue velvet gown
Then you’ll hear the voices out of the ancient past come back to you
Softly singing, differential equations and high handed immoral calculus
Don’t worry, it’s all as true as four equals two by two
Or as real as Casanova jumping out the window holding his own phallus
In flagrante delicto, for I know that one can still hear the Gods of Old
Out there in the night, when the stars have died, and the shadows howl
Follow me, where left is a yellow brick road, and right’s been on E-Bay sold
I have heard the Gods of Old, it was real I tell you, I know, I heard it from an owl.
December 8, 2011 – Konrad Tademar
The Gods of Old? They stood on the mountain tops, threw rocks at the men and women they created, sneaked down at night to steal the children. When the mothers cried, the Gods laughed and rolled more rocks down at the men and women they created. The women and men got down on their knees and prayed, and the Gods started laughing harder. They started laughing harder and stopped rolling rocks.
Excellent comments. You are of course right John. Still – the Gods of Old are also that which which we hear stirring like a whisper in the dead of night somewhere in the darkest nooks of our soul.
Yes, whispers in the dead of night and in the middle of a party too. I think this time of year a lot about what the gods are making of our revels. What are they whispering to us? Have another drink? Don’t think about me and what I want? Tonight you’re what I am every day?
Then we wake more mortal than every before–with the weight of all that god juice in our veins.