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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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?

Silent Crystal Penguins

Inverted shades, pale drifting reminders of cold and emptiness waft without intent and yet gather, entombing nascent knives of parkland opulence.

Narcissus-X returns from travels under the ebon sky, carries obsidian visions sought amid throngs of crystal penguins. Silent crystal penguins, colonnades of silent crystal penguins.

Flickering Fantasies Fade

Platitudes patter painfully, pandering philistines prattle in the wax museum and candle shop of bankrupt philosophies.

Away! Begone! Avaunt! Skedaddle! Snark hunters beware! Narcissus-X will not yield! Bark, barkers, bark! Art will out! Out art Art!

Or is that blood will out? Without blood, Dracula's occupation gone! Flickering fantasies fade, turning stale in the gray morning light fantastic trips trifles truffles Truffaut's screen credits crunch crisply.

Narcissus-X wakes, yet dreams; dreams, yet walks amid silent penguins. Silent crystal penguins. Silent crystal penguins, under an obsidian sky.

Till the Tiger Shall Sit on the Fence

Xanthus, Prokoptas, pablum, pandering philistines, obtuse potentates!

Art! ART! Narcissus-X and art! Art not naught for nattering nabobs of nihilistic nincompoopery!!!

Sing toot, sing poot, sing rooti-toot-toot. Sing on the corner for pfennigs and pence, sing till the tiger shall sit on the fence.

Narcissus-X broods.

Brooding hens, hence harmonies cacophonous silently slither nigh nightshade-shrouded ambiance.

Whither the penguins? Whither crystal penguins silhouetted neath an obsidian sky? Baneful penguins with burning eyes: eyes that pierce the night.

Feathers. Feathering. Fletchers, falcons, fain fletch but do not fetch.

Bowser, browsers, bantering boors. Simpering sceptically, simmering sneers.

Away! Away! Narcissus-X and art! Art ready for art? Hark! Narcissus-X Comes!

Narcissus-X: Obsidian Vistas of Opalescent Vacuity

Insomniac icosahedrons, insoucianct inclinations, peregrine pundits pitching pandering platitudes.

Narcissus-X in hadopelagic wanderings witnessed obsidian vistas of opalescent vacuity.

Abstraction of darkness, chasm of night, splinters of twilight, artistic delight.

Whence go the musings, when there are none?

Narcissus-X ponders.

Narcissus-X: Finished in the Kiln of Completion

Pilfering peccadilloes of pernicious platitudes, plebeian pundits pander!

Avaunt, antagonists of artistic ambiguity! Cares Narcissus-X for contemptuous calumnies; cacophonous calliopes, droning, drowning, drenching Calliope's questing cartographer?

Fie! Fee, fi, fo, fum; do re mi fa so la ti dough sticks until it be finished in the kiln of completion!

Sticks, stones, words, bones: naught knot, for art must untied be!

A hearse! A hearse! My kingpin for a hearse! Would that nonchalant nabobs of negligible knowledge gnaw and gnaw, and be a version of things long past participle or is it a penguin?

Penguins! Great obsidian crystal penguins begin their march.

Narcissus-X Alphabetizes

Aberrant asynchronicity batters baleful cacophonies, cancelling dullard drudges eccentrically euhemerizing fearsome ferrets!

Glad girandoles hoist hopeless integers integrating juxtaposed joviality, knowing kingfishers lugubriously languish miserably, misunderstood nabobs niggle obsequiously: ostentatious potentates!

Peerless questions, ridiculing reasons sinuously sinking through turgid tempests ubiquitously urging vehement viceroys without weal? Xanthippe's xenogeny yearns yeastily, Zillah's ziggurat!

Narcissus-X Amid Silent Menhirs

Adiabatic semblance of barometric metronomes echo in fulsome fusillades of harmony and silence.

If silence falls and Narcissus-X there is not, not is there Narcissus-X and falls silence if palindromic pandemonium ensues endlessly recursion of Mandelbrot set match point toward an obsidian sky below and endless night above.

Sweetly sibilant shibboleths rustle through groves of gumshoe soft-shoe buck and wing and nine makes six.

Hexagonal hexameters of horizons horizontal Xanthippe xylophone zither not for whom the zygote zooms: it zooms not for thee.

Whither zebras of obsidian hue and ebony? Howsoever Narcissus-X agonized art of art thou too two to toot? Rooty-toot-toot.

Narcissus-X muses, and musing, meanders amid silent menhirs of long-forgotten ambitions.

Where Shattered Stars Scream

Narcissus-X sees what linearity of time brings soft percussions of pattering platitudes but penguins pull pale parabolas of inverted ailerons and never say whatever became of the twelfth of never night fell far from the tree of endless night where shattered stars scream in the obsidian sky.

Lime-Scented Squirrel

Narcissus-X sees not the sun. The sun shines not today. Water runs down a window like a lime-scented squirrel.

Squirrels. Pearls. Peacock pearls before swine curves have amplitude without attitude but trending sets of syllogistic silence echo vainly against the night.

Squirrels. Vacant memories drift. Flour sifts but flowers fade. Who mourns for Twitchimius? Mourn not the Golden Grove, for lo! It mourns for thee.

Narcissus-X in Hexagonal Recursion of Pattering Penguins

Yesterday.

Today.

Tomorrow.

The day after tomorrow.

The day before the day after tomorrow.

Asymptotic curve of irredeemable cognitive dissonance echoes against obsidian skies of unanswered questions and questionable answers in athanasian redundancy of crystalline mirrors shattering!

Where is Narcissus-X? When is Narcissis-X? Who, what, why is Narcissus-X? Hexagonal recursion of pattering penguins. Silent penguins. Silent crystal penguins, with terrible red glowing eyes.

Patter, prattle, pudding and pie: why does Narcissus-X, oh, why?!

Penguins, Silently Screaming

Cold.

Darkness.

Illimitable cold and darkness.

Penguins. Where are the penguins? Where have all the penguins gone? Cold crystal penguins shattering in silent disharmonious ethereal chitterings.

Narcissus-X hears the penguins: the penguins that are gone, all gone, all gone far away in cold dark screaming silence.

Darkness.

Cold.

Dark coldness, boundless and bare, stretching far away.

Where are the penguins? WHERE ARE THE PENGUINS?!

Narcissus-X Avers

Nittering nabobs of nadiric notions!

Clattering calliopes! cacophonous calling cards of conventional claptrap!

Ankle-deep in angst, Narcissus-X protests!

Have none understood? Have none comprehended? Have None But the Lonely Heart is available now! Just eight dollars and ninety nine cents, plus shipping and handling! Operators are standing by! Cary and Ethel and Pyotr piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.

Cary? Carrie? Carry! Carry Me back to Old Virginny is a Bland song. Literally.

Why would anyone want to pickle a pepper, of all things?

Pepper, pickle, Piper, Peter, Pyotr, protest!

Narcissus-X protests!

Cryogenic caverns of crystalline coruscance! Sailing a frozen sea, under an obsidian sky, Narcissus-X avers the ascendance of art!

Narcissus-X Ponders Perspectives

Stultifying conventions of mere representationalism. Mathematical pale of pretentious absurdities - as if linear perspective represented reasonable realms of realistic rendering, rending perceptions, perspectives, reality itself in unreal symmetries of gridlocked shackles from even Art, Art, Narcissus-X may become entrapped.

Penultimate precipice of palpable puffery!! Etopic enactments, eccentric eventualities of erroneous acumen! Narcissus-X recoils from such platitudinous, pedestrian pablum of presumed popular preferences!

Perspectives

- or -

Frustrations of the Artist

One point!

Two point!

Three point!

More!

Four-point!

Five-point!

Seven-point!

Score!

But wait!

Narcissus-X is Artist!

But why?

Not as panderer to popular presentation of platitude parades. Not as slavish lackey to mere approximations of representational realism.

Not to be immured in a morass of mercantile mediocrities.

But is Narcissus-X naught but "not?"

Art for Art! Narcissus-X is Artist! Narcissus-X is for Art!

But is Art for Art and end? And is the end of Art for Art an end - and only an end? For What is Art, what is Artist, what is Narcissus-X if none but Narcissus-X knows Art?

Does not Narcissus-X display Art? Did not the Squirrel-King anoint Twitchimius as Guardian of the Golden Grove? And for what? To be ignored? To be beheld by the opposite wall? To be or not to be: That is the question.

But even as Hamlet did in vain assail the slings and arrows of Castle Cawdor, so does Narcissus-X display for the sake of walls.

Or was that Othello? It matters not, for Narcissus-X is Artist! Narcissus-X will prevail.

Narcissus-X will ponder perspectives.