The Fool's Triumph

And as I drifted into the past, memories came willingly into my arms, warming me and caressing me the way she did. And all I could think of was her arms holding me in the oppressive, comfortable blackness. And my heart was breaking, breaking and she tried so hard to hold it together. And the screaming continued inside my head, eyes wide open and blind. She held me and we stayed there, frozen like that, because I knew that if I moved I would evaporate into the darkness. And how could she hold the air? 

An ordinary kind of morning, Like waking up cold and crazy 

in an abandoned barn with an abandoned family

and a lost love in France.

The Sunday market’s are bustling in red today

And the ordinary people in this ordinary morning

drink cups of red from the fountain.

And of course the old King went mad

They believed he was and made it come true

His last and lonely daughter lost.

Lovely dreams splattered with red as I wander

through the market, If only these red signs were clearer

But these distorted faces take the shape of numbers.

So windy, limbs broken and scattered, 

I must make my way carefully to the other side

Before my red dress bleeds on to the ground

They say, Cordelia’s death was the most tragic.

Follow the pretty girl as she twirls on the dance floor. Spell bound by the ripples of her red dress. Turning, turning, my beloved. Strange eyes darting from her soft lips to her soft legs, but she dances only for me. Come closer. She lounges on the arms of a nearby chair, her mouth open in coy laughter. Oh your lovers are amusing, aren’t they my love. Brushes her fingers lightly upon his knee as she stands, and the brief ecstasy of her touch shows clearly upon his brows. As she saunters away, her back to me, I follow the exquisite movements of her hips and the faint outline of her legs beneath the red dress. It was the perfect gift. I finished my drink and left for my room. 

Dear, reader, do stop.

This story screams

of bitter consequences.

Admittedly and honestly

I am not the most beautiful of creatures

Nor the most kind, nor intelligent.

In fact, I am not a creature at all

But a riddle of your imagination.

Incomputable but explicable

I will be as real to you as your grief

At the passing of your dearest friend.

Forgive my morbidity but you know well

The power of suffering over joy.

This is a tale of unique form

That I felt did accurately represent

The fragments of my memory.

And perhaps your memory as well.

Or perhaps no memory at all.

Ah, you see I see your bewilderment at this

Self-reflecting text. I shall be clear,

I plan to plant a seed of

Confusion and doubt, to drive you to

Insanity, as I have been

Now you wonder, as every good reader

Should, at the reliability of this narrator.

Well done! You have fallen into my traps.

Let me be clear, I hope to see you fall again

Into eternal spirals of useless questioning

I have been truthful to you

Of my less than honorable objectives

Make of this tale what you will

I give you the perfect gift of a

Pretty girl in a pretty red dress

Insanity to acknowledge the unknown

Consequences of every smiling pose in every vibrant photograph

Invert your organs onto the page if you can

You would if you could just to admire

The disintegrating folds of gray matter.

Blinding words on a binding white screen form

A binary relationship between your heart and your fingertips.

Creative destruction or destructive creation?

No time for lingering questions, move forward,

Weary vogue won’t wait for wallflowers.

There’s no wrong in perpetuating the right

In the paradise, the dream, the unattainability of your existence.

 The answers to these contradictions lie in irony.

Perhaps your intellectual tastes prefer a paradox.

While your words pay homage to mediocrity

Or do you bore yourself sometimes? The moral of the story is…I’m going to jump into ocean waves without a life jacket. Afterall, adrenaline eliminates pain.

Never take yourself too seriously. 

Today I am lost

Unsure whether these words are the right ones

Because the right ones won’t

Sing and dance themselves onto the page

The despair begins

A cascade of self-pity turning into disgust… and some more pity

A problematic, a pathetic cycle

of a self-fulfilling prophecy

Now, I am more lost

I am deeper within the maze

And the walls are

Squeezing against my skin, my eyes ready to pop

Not a maze you say?

A spiralling road and i’m walking to its center

in diminishing circles

Will I finally find myself at the end of infinity?

You are laughing at me

I am tortured, pained, a deeply depressed deep thinker

But foolish I am not

So I walk stubbornly to my bitter destiny