Narcissus-X Ponders Inchoate Myrmidons

Were Naphthalene a city of crystals in the night, and sublimated urges robbed Achilles of his might, then Narcussus-X would ponder under darkly lowering skies as inchoate myrmidons run swiftly to intoxicating toys. And elusive mothballs carry Priam's people far away, for the poet profits little when the piper asks for pay.

Narcissus-X ponders dim visions, gliding on dark crystals across a sunless sea.

Narcissus-X Traverses Dolorous Vistas of Melancholy

Trifle not with the muses, for they are solitary abstractions of illuminable depth. Narcissus-X mused not long ere, musing, plunged past cerulean syllogisms of light and air, through lowering reveries of woe, to darksome prospects and dolorous vistas of endless melancholy.

Is not suffering art? Art suffering not? If, artist, thou art suffering not, no artist thou!

Narcissus-X is artist, poet, dark brush. Dark brushes past like an exhalation from ancient caverns: caverns of ice.

Art calls! Narcissus must seek once more grottoes of velvet coal, caverns of crystal oblivion, shores of a sunless sea: there to board dark-masted bark of silent crew. For Narcissus-X must, once again, glide beneath obsidian skies and dream of night.

Narcissus-X Commutes to Mountains of Wonder

Bucket of black snakes writhing in a mug, java jolt, insomnia in a cup.

Espresso expressions of crystalline dreams, dormant in a jar. Norwegian nerve juice of the masses, nap suppressant for Narcissus-X. Swedish gasoline driving imagination up mountains of wonder, with Conchita at the wheel.

Narcissus-X Rejects Avant Garde Conventionalities

Amateurish accolades on artistic atrocities! Laurel crowns, Laurel and Hardy, duck soup of the masses hardly whets the aficionado's appetite. Grim guerdon of common esteem: Narcissus-X seeks this not.

Crowd-pleasing commonalities do not art make, nor pandering popular perceptions. Art flows from Narcissus-X, for from Narcissus-X rush the inner visions of Narcissus-X, artist. From ebon depths to obsidian skies, Narcissus-X is beyond philistine blandishments, beyond crass commercial considerations, beyond avant-garde conventionalities.

Narcissus-X finds no surprise in vulgarians' vague verbiage on viewing the art of Narcissus-X, for who can understand the recondite heart of Narcissus-X, but Narcissus-X?

And yet.

Narcissus-X ponders: Can Narcissus-X withhold art from those who know not art, and, artless, yearn for that which they cannot know? May Narcissus-X withhold? Withholding tax comes back again, but art is long and deep.

Narcissus-X must brood.

Narcissus-X Takes Pity on the Muses

Eyes see, ears hear, ears of corn hear nothing by may taste sweet. Sweet music flees Philistine panderings. What matter, a lizard's opinion? Do odorous golfers truly fell crowds? Was the squirrel truly stunned?

Sinister Right Guard, stinging mist assaulting optic sense. Official deodorant of hoopsters, begone! Narcissus-X has no need of association with those who run, and sweat, and run again.

Jane Allen, Jane Eyre, Jane Austen, James Joyce in underwear. Ulysses was not written on a court. Prometheus bound, also available in paperback. Narcissus-X cares not, for Narcissus-X has the works of Shakespeare: Sonnets, Coriolanus, and lively Lear. Leer not, Lear. Lear Jets fly fleetly through the skies of United we stand, divided we fall fashions are but commercial exploitation of bourgeois yearnings.

Out, out, brief commercial! The artist must muse, else the muses shall suffer from the absence of Narcissus-X

Narcissus-X Reaches into Darkness

Windows on the sky. Darkness within enables vision. Stars, wheeling past. Clear, sharp stars in winter darkness. Cold night, cold light. Chilling points of diamond in an obsidian sky. Or are they tiny pits, holes in that dark dome, cryptic hints of stellar fires beyond?

Narcissus-X reaches into the darkness: not with flesh and bone, but with mind and - - -

Narcoleptic visions of stars wheeling overhead.

Strange paradox, that darkness brings vision, night reveals lights.

Narcissus-X Muses on Winter

Narcissus-X muses. Is winter woe or weal? Solitude. Silence. Sun retreats, night prevails. Heron-legged thoughts stalk nocturnal reveries.

Silibant softness
Damply stinging upturned face
Winter wind and snow

Sapphire beacon
Within swirling cloud of snow
Deadly steel within

Frozen swamp so still
Stony nectar glittering
Butterflies are gone

Leafless tree and snow
Clouds scudding past overhead
Do they fear the tree?