Ask the Animals
Ask the Animals
Someone, somehow, somewhere, along life’s long line, long before I was born anyhow, I do believe most hardily believe, invented a thing called marriage after s/he figured out, man cannot live with another person, female person, without getting bored, or she could not live with a male without getting frustrated, and without losing the once obsessed desire to have the lover, and so someone, somewhere, somehow, created a symbol, for the person or persons involved, man and woman, for if it wasn’t created, love would be abolish, like one does, human begins do, to everything else, unable to disinfect the heart, this person long ago, created this malady, so it would not cause us superior humans (so we think we are) to kill at will, lesser able men, so I repeat—marriage was invented, lest someone, somewhere, somehow destroy the whole thing, for everybody, everywhere. Thus, this person also invented the pipe, to smoke, to calm himself down, and she invented opinions to deliberate on, to keep herself guessing, and foulness they both created to keep life interesting, and jealousy somehow was manufactured, to pretend one really cares, but unfortunately, people took this word seriously, and created chaos out of it, it was a joke in the beginning.
After all this took place, a fine portrait was painted long ago, and hid from—all of us, but I found it, the devil had it concealed in a metaphor with a moustache: doubtless he despises marriage, disdained such cooperation between two persons. And so you see, I have delivered this to you, this great horror of the past. The worse thing about love, the most annoying thing about it is, you need two people, an accomplice, to make it a crime, and even when it is a crime, one still wants to love anyhow, he or they, or she is still in search for it. One clings onto each letter of the word, even rolling down a slope, s/he will not let go. They think, before all else, this love will save them, that s/he will emerge in heaven with flying colours, plunge into the golden gates—pass go, like a bar-fly unseen. Imbeciles, without the permission; virtue, untested.
What is love, this kind of love, anyhow? Ask the animals, the beasts, they will tell you—the better love is adoring, if need be, to sacrifice and prostituted oneself, it has very little if anything to do with desire and the love organs that is pleasure.
No: 2413 7-16-2008 (poetic prose)
Someone, somehow, somewhere, along life’s long line, long before I was born anyhow, I do believe most hardily believe, invented a thing called marriage after s/he figured out, man cannot live with another person, female person, without getting bored, or she could not live with a male without getting frustrated, and without losing the once obsessed desire to have the lover, and so someone, somewhere, somehow, created a symbol, for the person or persons involved, man and woman, for if it wasn’t created, love would be abolish, like one does, human begins do, to everything else, unable to disinfect the heart, this person long ago, created this malady, so it would not cause us superior humans (so we think we are) to kill at will, lesser able men, so I repeat—marriage was invented, lest someone, somewhere, somehow destroy the whole thing, for everybody, everywhere. Thus, this person also invented the pipe, to smoke, to calm himself down, and she invented opinions to deliberate on, to keep herself guessing, and foulness they both created to keep life interesting, and jealousy somehow was manufactured, to pretend one really cares, but unfortunately, people took this word seriously, and created chaos out of it, it was a joke in the beginning.
After all this took place, a fine portrait was painted long ago, and hid from—all of us, but I found it, the devil had it concealed in a metaphor with a moustache: doubtless he despises marriage, disdained such cooperation between two persons. And so you see, I have delivered this to you, this great horror of the past. The worse thing about love, the most annoying thing about it is, you need two people, an accomplice, to make it a crime, and even when it is a crime, one still wants to love anyhow, he or they, or she is still in search for it. One clings onto each letter of the word, even rolling down a slope, s/he will not let go. They think, before all else, this love will save them, that s/he will emerge in heaven with flying colours, plunge into the golden gates—pass go, like a bar-fly unseen. Imbeciles, without the permission; virtue, untested.
What is love, this kind of love, anyhow? Ask the animals, the beasts, they will tell you—the better love is adoring, if need be, to sacrifice and prostituted oneself, it has very little if anything to do with desire and the love organs that is pleasure.
No: 2413 7-16-2008 (poetic prose)
Labels: "Antena Regional": The best of 2006 for promoting culture
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