Wine
Light-headedness is a sign
Of unbridled optimism
Deceiver of situations
Joyous roguish red nectar
Roaring through the veins
Like a tropical river teaming with mystery you
Softly laid me to the floor
But I Still wanted more
And you
Like some deceiving whore caressed my lips
Until I slowly entered into insensibility
Robert K. Stephen
If Rome, a city of vulgar living, had been depressing after Greece, London, a city of the drab dead, was fifty times worse. I had forgotten the innumerability of the place. Its ugliness. Its termite density after the sparsities of the Aegean. It was like mud after diamonds, dank undergrowth after sunlit marble; and as the airline bus crawled on its way through the endless suburb that lies between Northolt and Kensington I wondered why anyone should, or could, ever return of his own free will to such a landscape, to such a society, such a climate.
John Fowles, “The Magus”, 1977.
In my mind Greece lay weeks, not the real hours, behind. The sun shone as certainly, the people were far more elegant, the architecture and the art much richer, but it was as if the Italians, like their Roman ancestors, wore a great mask of luxury, a cosmetic of the over indulged senses, between the light, the truth and their real selves. I couldn’t strand the loss of the beautiful nakedness, the humanity of Greece, and so I couldn’t stand the sight of the opulent, animal Romans; as sometimes one can’t stand one’s own face in the mirror.
John Fowles, “The Magus”, 1977.
Emperor Bokassa murders 153 schoolchildren
Nice little baby
Come here little sweetheart
Want a big kiss from mummy
Little chicken tidbits for a delicate sweetie
Daddy poo wants to take you for a walk
No big doggie will molest our little baby
And when you return home a cookie
Oh you are such a wonderful darling
Where would we be without you
You loveable pooch
Come to mommy and daddy
Robert K. Stephen
All we get are the coffee grinds
The mighty converge in golden dimensions
Crouched behind pheasant and brut
Forging the new world
For the exclusive benefit of all
Charades for fools and the scribbling bloodsuckers
Fantasizing
Vomiting streams of foulness to be lapped up by ignorant optimists
Applauded from the black robed rotunda
Let it be known he died not in vain
But let it wait if it must
There is a better world beyond
No rush here
Chapter and verse are cheap
Let no new shepards arise
Lest they upset the flock
Or the Index
Rules of Production
Need not be disturbed
Red or White
You know it never changes
Raise, rise and peak
Hail statistical efficiency!
New breakthroughs
New hopes
A new world
A new man
Self glorification at such a cheap price
The infinite birthday party drags
With infinite toasts to the
Snappy suited apostles of shit
Robert K. Stephen
Finalized Conclusion
You don’t want to
BUT
You don’t know where to go
What you’ve done wrong
How many people you have hurt
Pain
Suffering
Selfish grief
What can you say
What can you do
What shall you do
The razor blade gently calls
To
Slide
You away
Robert K. Stephen
The 27th loser
She wanted to meet him and more
The Big Star
He was all she desired
Without her body next to his she’d go mad
A typical case but sad
She rejected possible lovers by the score
Preferring to read about him in cheap pulp magazines purchased at the corner drug store
Dreams about-with-for him manifested the best of her
She found it imperative to nestle in his fur
She found a job
Not exactly one where the money rolled in by the glob
Her social life was nil
She swallowed the Pill
Buying wardrobes by the score but
Her lack of taste made her look like a cheap whore
She saved her bread and to L.A. she fled
Studios were phoned and finally she cornered his agent
A high-class gent by the name of Kent
No way to see him was his reply
Her pleas didn’t even cause a dent
So hundreds of pleading letters were sent
And the badgered man was compelled to relent
She met him along with others standing in a long line
But for her there was no worry
The others were clearly low-class mothers
He’d give kisses to her that would smother
Making her free of bothers
Finally it was her turn
Two minutes in his dressing room
His motors would soon be in high zoom
For her he’d fall
It would be a quick wedding Rolls and all
Then children six feet tall
But he didn’t give a damn
She’s simply another face
Lacking elementary grace
The two minutes disappeared in a flash
Her idol clearly didn’t care
And was not moved by her penetrating stare
The security guard called for the next
She sobbed and grabbed him so perplexed
Causing the security guard’s muscles to flex
And so dragged away was the wench
Out on the street and out of her mind
Wandering amongst her proletarian kind
Life to her now was no better than a rotten melon rind
It would be back to the toy shop
What a disastrous flop
To the drugstore she went
On razor blades her money was spent
And to the Holiday Inn (in room207)
Where she promptly did herself in.
Robert K. Stephen
Childhood Plus
Slapped on the ass
Wrenched out with plastic gloves
Spotlight blinds the primary vision
Horrid formula milk
And the accursed Pablum
Shitting all over the place
The Big Ones pat our heads
So cute
But so obnoxious and get rid of them quicks
Thrust into the gulag of kindergarten barricades
Angry ones
Yell at us
Discipline us
Morals
Response to the command
Tolerated and patronized
Riot after the first joint
The women you have been taught to hate
Frustration equals the ten o’clock rape
Radical
Or suburban
To the factories of imaginary consumption
Politely work for the son of a jerk
The son in law
Punks or respectable
45-year-old jacketed (from high school)
Losers crowd the Montreal Forum
And beer swillers at Lafontaine
If not perhaps to the college
For paper tiger degrees
Suited to the paper maché world
Elitism of the unemployed
Beer bellied
Joints in the alley
The paranoia of survival
Choking onset of the crematorium
Companions fall in the wayside
Life vanishes
To be bashed in the ass once again
The cry
Incessant
Robert K. Stephen
Nobody said what they really wanted, what they really thought. Nobody behaved with breadth, with warmth, with naturalness; and finally, it became pathetic. I could see that my host and his wife had a genuine love of Greece, but it lay choked in their throats. The critic made a perceptive little disquisition on Leavis; and then ruined it by a cheap squirt of malice. We were all the same; I said hardly anything, but that made me nor more innocent – or less conditioned. The solemn figures of the Old Country, the Queen, the Public School, Oxbridge, the Right Accent, People Like Us, stood around the table like secret police, ready to crush down in an instant on any attempt at intelligent European humanity.
John Fowles, “The Magus”, 1977.
One of the great fallacies of our time is that the Nazi’s rose to power because they imposed order on chaos. Precisely the opposite is true – they were successful because they imposed chaos on order. They tore up the commandments, they denied the super-ego, what you will. They said, “You may persecute, you may kill, you may torture, you may couple and breed without love.” They offered humanity all its great temptations. Nothing is true, everything is permitted.
John Fowles, “The Magus”, 1977.
A Bird's Eye View of Fashion, Food, Travel, Culture, Beverage and Curiosity