The Artist is a Saint

How fabled is the night! In the trollish arms of a lumpy oak tree, a pretty girl sings to her own tambourine accompaniment. Huge flowers brighten in the gloom like Tiffany lamps, and the planets bend to be within earshot, tamed by the song of this comely siren.

Nobody ever mentions the communist spy-game the grasses and cockroaches play with us. All we see are bugs and soft greenery, but our addiction to hazy surfaces will prove our defeat. Soon they will be jungle, all jungle, like the jungle in a pop-up book.

In the parks’ nocturnal glow, the passers-by seem ragged black-felt-poppets, filled with the spices of darkness, and overheard in unfinished phrases stories connect, dissolve, re-converge strangely altered from what they were; as if the chlorophyll, muttering in its sleep, unfurled the saga of the world to any ear, mortal or immortal or otherwise, to hear it.

But amidst this carnival of musical utterances, danger, and making-out, one figure sat on the curb, not with anyone.

On the curb that was in fact the colossal lower lip of a cthonic god statue, a saint sat, one of those ambitious women whose job it is to curdle and cringe the hearts of people with Truth when they wallow too long in vice’s troughs of blood and booze and semen, that pious mule in her scratchy-hair-shirt and rope belt, resembling a convict recently locked in an oubliette, and who had forsworn all the material plane as a prismatic illusion of purest evil, now grovelled at the stars, the rats, the discarded Dumpling House menu, any ear that would hear her.

“More rare in spirit than the rarest rhinoceros, why, OMG, should I suffer all understanding of reality without the tender bubbles of fugitive love, to be above the eternal transformation of universal music whose great movements glide beneath me like islands composed of clouds? Oh heavens, pity my one note kazoo and solitude.”

The ear of the-death-god’s-head listened for I know not what intelligence from the fringes of outer space.

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