LA DESINTEGRACIÓN DE POSEIDON

Poseidón atisba, en un estado extracorpóreo transitorio, a distancia, su momento solitario de desintegración. Un nunca jamás convertido en érase una vez.

  

Pandora, desilusionada una vez más, imagina su ánfora casi vacía hundiéndose lentamente en las azules profundidades.

Observa a Poseidón goteando allí mismo desde su propia fuente ornamental, pequeña, triste.




 Image and text © David F. Brandon, 2016

KNIGHTS IN SHINING ARMOUR

Yet another not so cool lazy southern Spanish siesta afternoon and five hours hereafter, there will be action under a clear crescent moon.

“Action!”

Light years too late ghostly Tankman Johnson’s Phantom Echo Regiment of supercharged mother of pearl blue black Chieftain tanks, crewed by the sweet sexy Pretty Boys and the sweet sexy Pretty Girls, a symphony of tuned turbocharged chrome trimmed engines and canon and machine gun fire, sublime music and bonhomie, roar across the shimmering deserts of Almería, Sister Ray loud on the sound systems of each and every vehicle, deep into Al-Ándalus, and, in a storm of settling dust, ding dong, knock knock! Who's there?  

“Come to rescue The Transparent Princess….”

….The Pretty Girl, with her oh so cute nineteen sixties style pageboy fringe and pony tail, rescue her from the castle keep, The Stone Room, rescue her from despair. And all without suffering a single casualty, cuts and bruises, aches and pains apart, to the hoary hordes of mercenary priests and blind believers, martyrs of the Afterlife Paradise Enlightenment Salesman, The Born Again Priest.

“Sticks and stones might break my bones but words will never hurt me! Help them all along on their way to where they want to go is what I say! Everyone Ok? Cut! That’s a wrap! Shit, we’re all over exposed! Switch the time curves! Let’s get the hell outta here, kids!!”

But, too late, too late! For she is nowhere to be found and childish dreams of burnished steel, of gentlemen knights and gentlemanly justice turn to rust to dust, dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

The image of the Chieftain tank is a digital reworking of a 2008 painting, FOOTSTEPS ECHO, HUGE DUST, by the artist David F. Brandon © David F. Brandon, 2014

Sister Ray is a song from The Velvet Underground’s second LP record, White Light/White Heat, 1967.

 

THE LEOPARDS (BIG CATS AND A BALD MONKEY)

“Peter, this can’t go on. Simply can’t go on. Friday’s the limit. After that it’s the end, I can’t take it anymore. Friday....We’ve got to get her out of here....” pleaded Alba in a distant sort of voice on the point of cracking under the emotion of it all, but my erection felt magnificent.

....the voyeur and the leopards....

Alba stared in my direction, sort of vacantly, gazed through me really, but, there she was, standing there next to me, next to the bed, next to The Pretty Girl lying on her back on the bed, radiantly naked. Alba, radiantly naked also, lowered herself onto the rumpled white sheet and she was over The Pretty Girl, on all fours, and, folding her elbows to lower her head, brushed The Pretty Girl’s cheeks, her whole face, with kisses and licks lighter than air and the movement was entirely under control, slow and deliberate and strong, like a leopard might well move and Alba turned her head up to look at me and thereafter never lost my eye, so I was held in the glint of a leopards stare such that, at that very moment she became a leopard and then they both became leopards before my very eyes and settled in together, elegantly, in that way that leopards have of moving together to rest, to caress, to watch. Big cats purring, forever vigilant, powerfully content.

....toucher and the touched....

The two of them were radiantly naked, me too, aroused and entranced, magnificent, and we were all bathed in celestial light, slightly blue, slightly orange savannah. (Except, of course we were not, for “celestial” and “radiant” and “magnificent” are just the kind of words that come to mind to describe these kinds of celestially radiant moments after the fact, a posteriori.)

....our prowling eyes upon it all....

In a trance, in the tall grass, from atop a small rise, staring into the clear, black moonless night sky, three leopards look incredibly insignificant, celestially, radiantly insignificantly magnificent, three leopards bathed under so many stars, the Milky Way, Mars, infinite galaxies they suppose, parallel and bubble universes, but care not whether they are right in their enchanted suppositions, or wrong, but they are eternally vigilant. “So much space, so much silence....” they think to themselves in magic unison, (Except, of course it was not magic, for “magic” is just the kind of word that comes to mind to describe these kinds of celestially radiant moments after the fact, a posteriori.) and, of course, with that thought there is no more silence, and there are no more leopards, no more eternity, but hey! Lo and behold, a magnificent music floats out of the ether.

the voyeur and the leopards
the toucher and the touched
our prowling eyes upon it all

“That’s it? That’s the lot, the whole song? Three fucking lines? Stupid fucking title almost as long as the song, three lines, and we’re back in the real world?” A voice in my head importuned me, but I drowned it out. “Yes! So, right then, we’re in this together. She’s with us from here on in, we work together.” I said.

“Big Cats and a Bald Monkey”© 2012, Jone Johnson & The Blue Roadsters™.

Elsewhere, in the real world, various men and women, AC Commercial Reps, oblige a father to witness the show they have arranged for his daughter. Then, after he gets his last feeble erection, they shoot him several times in the stomach. He who buys pays the price. There is profit to be made from these things.

Somewhere very distant, perhaps in a different dimension, Tankman Johnson lies atop the turret of his Chieftain, his custom baby, in a trance, staring into the clear, black moonless night sky. He feels incredibly insignificant, celestially radiantly insignificant, so many stars, the Milky Way, Mars, he supposes, but cares not whether he is right in his suppositions, or wrong. “So much space, so much silence....” he thinks to himself, and, of course, with that thought there is no more silence and a magnificent music floats out of the ether.

....the voyeur and the leopards....

And with that he rolls over onto his stomach and bawls through the commander’s hatch, “Put The Roadsters on the sound system, let’s get this show on the move, celestially, radiantly, magnificently on the move! And put that leopards DVD on the monitors. What? The one Bug Eyed Peter sent just before the New Year....and mute the soundtrack, we need the music.” And to himself he asks, “Why do those old BBC wildlife documentaries kill the magic with words like endogamy?”

....toucher and the touched....

“He who pays will pay the price.” He murmurs to himself.

....our prowling eyes upon it all....