Sept.6.2016
The charnel house of an adelite grig,
abode of a slimy-oleaginous Rasputin.
A moribund old
chilblainious man stands akimbo,
much to my acrimony and chagrin,
He stands- sadly still being.
He does not speak,
rather, if he does, his words are banal
and henceforth disappear into diminution.
The absurdity of a howl so loud
bombast and perfidious.
I fear the sound.
Hence, I turn to run
but Kafka chortles and stops my short exodus.
Ol’ Kafka smiles in a pugnacious manner
He speaks!
“Oh neophyte,” costively jocose he utters, “Why do you run
in such a desultory manner?’
“For you see…this is a celebration of the things to come!”
Curious as a petulant child I become an interlocutor of
despair
“Things to come? What do you mean by this vagary…celebration?”
He speaks!
“Why death, my child. Here in this pre-Elysium we celebrate
futility and absurdity. It is a necropolis of joy, my boy!”
I respond.
“But death is…”
He speaks!
“You do not see, but yes my boy come hither. Come hither and
join in this stolid jollification!”
I turn away and dismiss my confounding counselor of doom.
Before me I see a vast capacious chasm
in which I peer and gaze and and and
to my malaise I see many of things
many of atrocious things
of which I cannot describe without eviscerating my sanity.
These unspeakable bearers of sheer paroxysm began to scalp
the edges of the pit so deep.
They appeared before me now,
still utterly terrifying,
but, paradoxically, they seemed to greet me with great
candor and verisimilitude.
I felt warm and welcomed,
even in my state of perdition.
They began to dance
to dervishly swirl
and dance.
The scene was most absurdly convivial and innocent.
I would not dance…
Oh no! Not I!
But let the things dance and prance and frolic I did,
no disturbance or gibbosity did I manifest.
At once
a moment in time-present-future-past-alike
the old decaying geriatric,
whom I cared for not,
began to grow mighty rutilant.
His skin peeled and fell to the dilapidated wretched stone
floor.
He smiled,
or it appeared he smiled
for as much as a man of wrinkled red musculature can.
The ghouls-imps-beings-of-what-say-you began to cheer and
applaud.
A flash!
A flash!
Blinding spears of light abated me of vision.
When the sable inkiness of the crypt returned there was no
elderly decrepit man.
Only the things and
of course Kafka
All them cheering about.
Incredulous as it was,
I began to cheer as well.
Some sort of ecstatic adulation was about me.
Yes indeed.
I blinked once with tears of joy
blurred it became
and blurred it increased
till, yes, it blurred no more.
In that ephemeral experience I felt some odd sensation of
ecstasy
for a man in which I felt nothing but contempt for.
Different archaic roads all lead to the grand Tiberian fortress
of the dammed-oh-so-not-so-damned.
I smiled for the first time in sincerity.
I shook Kafka’s hand and made a pleasant retreat to reality.
