A Dorian Evening

Tales of Mystic Poets : VIII

 

 

 

 

My bananas spoilt before I finished the comb. It came from the tree outside. Its been drizzling on and off, shutting down the sounds of the neighborhood. In the fugginess that then arises in a warm tropical night, a man is reminded of flowers that have no scent, the dead calm of sailors without wind and the fact that we used to like ourselves.

 

Our authors of the past have made valiant attempts to bring this into our expression and cognizance today but alas, the task is daunting. It is a fondness, maybe a memory we seem to have about the fact that the reality of the world and universe around us, is also us. At a personal level that translates as ' my ' face on the face of reality.

 

I light another cigarette and blow the smoke away and watch it as it carries on the wet dark roads under the street lights. It reminds me of a WWII movie about an American spy in Berlin who is moving among the gray shadows under the absent but watchful eye of the nazis.

 

The mind stirs a little but makes no suggestion. There are signs here of a collossal destruction the size of a karakatoa or an economic depression. People like you and me have walked these streets attempting to make clear the experience. There have referred to a god like us, that what one mind thinks so can another ..... the suggestions have been great. But today, in the musky atmosphere of a tropical evening, my mind can only think of beautiful and dangerous women who are like me. I have to work on the gender.

 

A gray cat walks past and stops at a glass windowed lace curtained cafe in the area. I'm looking at it and I'm saying, the beast and the heaven. So?