Narcissus' pond

[Sepia]

Here. It was here it happened. It was here that we saw what would make us, what would shape us in the silver spoon, as the devil himself is standing there, pressing souls into molds, creating every crevice, every orifice and every thought, every flaw and every perfection. We saw Ibsens old devil and he'd glance around and see us, noticing us like we used to notice the ants that crawled on our table on a clear and vivid summer's day as we drank port, gazing into the gardens where we saw future/past showing us the ants crawling from our skin in a locked room, forgetting for the first time our fear of life.

It watched us as the hawks soaring for the sky watched the fox farm, gluttony rising on the scale of sins as we licked our fingers and watched the seventeen year olds growing up in the summer, admiring the beauty that comes before bitterness, the shadow from the trees showing us the dead as they walk, their entire lives superimposed over our minds. Our hearts race eachother and die, there is the feeling of a tentacle grasping the mind, something losing before we ourselves lost. There is a child being born from the old molds and he has been born more than once but the monkeys never remember the trees.

At the pond, Narcissus aged sixteen sits, watching his mirrored image among the dead leaves and thinking about reality bites, thinking about the loneliness of his own, his release from every duty and he knows it with his body now that freedom has always had a price and none will hear of this story, there is no chronicler, nothing is arranged, this is personal. It is not a story for the history books, the realm where the librarians are aiding and abetting creating a different reality, perceivable only in what seems like two dimensions, there is always something lacking and we leave the words out, the tetragrammaton something too old to be a use for us for there are too many true gods for any of them to gain any power

We are born in the bickering sound of zealots, scholars who bicker on principle and of power, god died and he was born into man, enlightenment had been achieved and we had all gone that long walk, we had seen it the way you believed it to be as some of us walked on the roof of indiras net, gazing beyond with godsight and touching reality once more, an easy mold in the backs of our hands

"Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest the shadows
I live with are numberless"

Our lips touch the tune, we hear it suddenly, there is an elevation in perception, time is feeling non existant, time is feeling like a black hole around the edges of our fingers, we're at the crossroads where our minds bleed into eachother with the truth flowing off at the edge, a reality formed like a disk where the ships never sail towards the edge, where daredevils are born drinking rum and laughing at death waiting and they have always been the people who have seen the truth or the worst of humanity but they have seen something, those who stand there are our oldest minds and some are the wisest minds.

We hear the scholars and priests at their refuges, barren rocks climbing from the murky depths of the sea and underneath it, hell. Life was easier then, life wasn't an oppressive burden, life was tasting like a fresh mango and prison wine, life was repulsive and beautiful before we lost ourselves to our memories, passed a threshold not in time but in mind and we turned into cabbages, carrots and brussel sprouts. Diseased fingers picked us up in the markets before they put us in the micro or buried us under synthetic products that was made for the first travellers to outer space and now celebrated in the new church where the world resides

That chapel, at the heart of the world where everyone knew, everyone saw it, these men even felt it, the strains of it all upon the skin of their minds and like the men driving the trains across poland they kept their silence and spent their money on drink, drowning themselves alive as everything was revealed to them, the canvas stripped from the frame and behind the frame the model sits with his thighs open and we see the stars and suns in his loins, we see hell in his heart and we see the flesh decaying, boils filled with puss bursting, cellar doors filled with mediocre murders and murderers, open throats filled with scripture and none even trying to dance, everyone always trying to observe

the heart of those that pass them by

trying to see truth or a new answer or a new question, something new born from the forms of the old, a revolution being described in a pre language, transmitted like a virus through the heads of the dead, the pigs squeal when the prods hit their skin and we blind ourselves so we may discuss, we sacrificed our eyes to see if something new can be gained in vivisecting the ideas of old, re visiting the perspectives of old but most of the discussers get stuck in places where nothing changes and all they  have are the details where walt disneys devil sits on a three-legged stool, waiting to milk us

Human life is two dimensional, social animals like we are we refer to things in the past tense that have made us what we are, never what we're doing or will do, time is viewed as a linear entity and thusly, time becomes linear and the story is omnipotent and history is the tome where everything is revealed save the truth

As the Good Reverend notes in his texts, Elvis had seen it, Elvis had seen the new truth, contained mostly within the states where the illuminated ones were born with more ferocity, in Europe they dabbled to more traditional careers for people of that bent and they were the kings of the broken wastelands, they were the pictures of ma and pa by the world's biggest teflon covered frying pan hanging from an old tree where they used to hang niggers, a world still used in every day practice down there, a magic being ended. If you wish to be famous all you ever need to do is to create three lousy singles or paintings or stories, get a fit and pretty body where one should tattoo the word "NIGGER" as big and loud as possible and strip down.

Here. Here was where it were, here was it we shot that fourteen year old nazi in the head. In his pockets we found gold fillings and a battered copy of the talmud sown into her gear and her long blonde hair was concealed by the helmet. She was beautiful and we wept as we understood what we had done before we put her on a stack of hay and fucked her

We went back to our homes, our wives and daughters, our sons growing up with wooden lee enfields, wishing a sten for christmas and we smiled at them and ate that delicious pie cooling in the window sill, technicolor dreams showing us reality working its way back beyond the borders of the black iron prison, superimpositions growing wild in every direction like sentient plants, spiralling up our dna as everything mimics the snakes

where shadows dwell, we stand. Narcissus thought of it for a long time, it happened before the known story and he contemplated that question, it had such a violent true ring to it, it felt slippery like liquid silver being poured down the ear of the good king, the one we buried with a heavy heart and in our minds we were alone and we would always be completely alone as none could really find every aspect of us, like we would never find that aspect with anyone else unless luck was had or a stronger god

Narcissus knew he was, he knew that was the truth as he donned his cape and did the v sign with nixon