Thursday, January 21, 2016

Narcissus-X: Beware the Droste!

Recursive regressions rebounding, Droste geometries, redundant reflections withdrawing towards an infinity of repetitious recapitulations, defenestrations of Prague, but does the golem walk?

Looping laps and wavelets sing, no penguins does the sunset bring; yet when at nightfall all is dark, penguins glide above the park. Recurrent periodic table, none will sing when none are able. Able, Cain, and endless rain, trudging through the lightless drain.

Penguins, penguins, persiflage and pointless patter, where is thought and what is matter? Deep, descending, enduring divers diversely recurring thoughts of penguin pools and pattering feet, yet where do all the jesters meet?

And Narcissus-X looks back to see another screen, another sea from which another sight will still retreat in darkened night?

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Narcissus-X and the Gloomy Dane

Dodecahedral dissolution of diaphanous draperies, Narcissus-X follows full fathom five and penguins dive; cavorting round the glen. And should the goblins be in bloom, in chambers ten by ten.

For if these truths from fardels flee, fifteen years see five thousand sunsets and forty dozen, not a million: Stafford, Stratford, Stratford-on-Avon and twelve make seventeen which make a haiku, or would, if a woodchuck could chuck wood.

Deep dive the penguins, yet deeper still must Narcissus-X descend; should a patient etherized upon a table smell as sweet; good night sweet penguin: flocks of krill trill trippingly on the tongue.

The whirlwind of penguins for the most part are capable of nothing, but let your own discretion be your tutor.

Tutor, suitor, six-gun shooter, tinplate turkeys, the terror of tiny town rides again.

And still must Narcissus-X descend, through the obsidian sky, past ebon crystal chambers of unremembered dreams, where skeins of penguins bisect dichotomous distillations.

Friday, September 5, 2014

Penguin, Penguin, Burning Bright: Narcissus-X Ponders

Penguin, penguin, burning bright
On the icefield in the night,
What incendiary spark
Could break the sempiternal dark?

In what broken, tattered dream,
Filled with fumes of kerosene,
Threw the match or tossed the lighter,
Watched as fire flickered brighter?

And what elbow and what art
Could bend the ruler of that heart?
And when that heart would skip a beat,
What was then around to eat?

What the bucket? what the rope?
In what chimney was there smoke?
What the matchbox? What fell fool
Lit the penguin's wading pool?

When the penguins built their biers,
And kept their thoughts between their ears,
Did critics see the penguin's flare,
Or care to note a fire there?

Penguin, penguin, burning bright
On the icefield in the night,
What incendiary spark
Could break the sempiternal dark?

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Narcissus-X Drifts

Adit of thought, tenebrous tunnel, Narcissus-X drifts. Silent silverfish sinuous linear tracings shining darkly, sibilant mutterings echoing in reverberant reverie.

Mauve and gas-lamp gleam. Colors of darkness in night unseen. Sheen and shimmer, shivering sounds, sullen intensity glaring from work undone, Narcissus-X seeks.

Seeks and Sykes and cymbals clash, snare drums roll and trumpets blare. Signs and silence, sight and sense, pellucid penguins' darting flair. Flamboyant flambeau, felicitous facade. Narcissus-X does not, can not, paste pastiche pretense: plaudits or no.

Away! Avaunt! Avalanche riders in a storm. Narcissus-X is artist, Narcissus-X declares: behold the ebon gleam.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Narcissus-X Listens

Whither the penguins? Whence the pence? Hence the artichokes cry: the best Hollandaise passed, alas! Narcissus-X envisages, visions vast.

Fleecy fragments, delicate ashen vestiges drifting away: born by breezes unseen yet tasting dry with desiccant doubts. Narcissus-X doubts, but doubts not. Never cry nay! The horse neighs, the dog barks, but trees stand silent: yet speak in any but the gentlest breeze. Hush, say the trees! Hush! Narcissus-X listens.

Monday, June 16, 2014

Narcissus-X: Baleful Bandicoots; Chimeric Penguins

Monotonous beat, monotremic metronome of momentous moments long since buried beneath bales of baleful bandicoots. Bah! Narcissus-X avers adiabatic lapse rates ascending crescendos of cacophonous coliiformes.

Die Fledermaus flutters, yet Narcissus-X remains. What price flight? Whence the two pence pettifogger, and zeppelins built for two? A rose by any other name would smell up the entire back 40: but no, bunga bangkai, Sumatran sullenness, six times six; and weave a circle round him thrice; but no!

Avaunt, people from Porlock, away! Approach no more! For Narcissus-X still stands! Stands for art, sands of time, sands of time drifting slowly toward the past.

But there! Narcissus-X strains through the glare, the noise, the fluttering festoons fast fading fearfully, and beholds! The dome! The caves of ice! And the river, running straight and true as Mandelbrot's maze to caverns measureless by man, to the sunless sea.

Narcissus-X remains no more. The music loud and long sounds silently amid groves of dulcimers and broken lutes.

The river calls, the vision recedes, but no more swiftly than Narcissus-X advances: for Narcissus-X is art, Narcissus-X is artist, and Narcissus-X heeds the call; set forth once more, and pressing on sail beyond the glittering caves and shouting birds, to the sunless sea.

For it is there, deep beneath the obsidian sky, that Narcissus-X calibrates the cadence of chimeric penguins sliding swiftly toward the Acheron shore.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Plutonic Plasticity, Pattering Pizza, Penguin Peccadilloes

Agora, Rialto, Portobello Road: occidental accident of incidental commercialism. Whence shall Narcissus-X ponder pandering pattering of penguin peccadilloes? Pinochle palaces, posturing potentates, peregrinating pinnance of plutonic platitudes.

The market, the market, the market so fair: come sample, come barter, come peddle your wares! Sell art by the bushel, flair by the pound.

Narcissus-X broods.

And brooding, Narcissus-X sees: plutonic provinces of illimitable plasticity. Air and water, earth and fire: Moro saw, yet did not comprehend. Perceived, yet did not understand. Not the dark, not the night, not the aching silence of penguins taking flight. Narcissus-X sees: abyssal, unfathomable, submerged beneath compressing capstones of cognizant comprehension; the furnace of dreams, forge of fantasy, crucible of imagery.

Or did Narcissus-X have too much pizza?

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