It has become hymnal. The lasting proof. The lusting after the lasting proof the music. This is not proust. Then again everything is proust because everyone in search of lost time cycling through guises manias assassins guesses all the rest. Blessed be the alchemy of our gist our lore. We the cause the effect with hymns seeding. On the ninth day everyone revolted realizing there wasn’t gonna be a tenth. In truth no days at all no edges so everyone went on as is. And went on going on. From the pinched nipples of clouds we received this pearl this chance glisten To cherish to bless is all. We held that in store in our chests. The lot of us trespassers fools tramps. From the grainy past from the sourced cinema of our graves the image of the ringleader the anointed one with the too tight calico vest crooked bowtie torn baggy trousers spindly joints dustcaked bowler clipped stache the one deathless in the annals of burlesque. The camera followed him as it does us. The camera hissing like snakes in rapture like rain pelting slats. The camera’s sleepless eye of many minds conjuring all at once. Perpetuity of simultaneities the cause the effect. The camera our deadly ally our fiend. We must remain hymnal in our creed. The camera doesn’t want our words. The only time our tramp idols spoke was when he sang otherwise nonsense otherwise mute and ambling onward with pluck and vim.
Painting by Van Gogh
John Biscello 