AS ABSURD AS THE THEATRE IS


The play opens like summer in the snow. Immediately the absurd figures that it has to run, and it does so; out, out, out. I see it on the walls of buildings, on the seats of houses, upon leaflets of introductions that reflect precious vanity, topping reindeer noses, bellowing silently within heads of glass. First come the reservations all have to make; rich as we are, in dresses and suit; hoo-lee! hoo-lee! squirms the clown with the white robe in that white face of insanity – the luncheons outside in hot summer air booked to its fullest, its foods and lobsters and oysters weighing wood and tables down. No one gives a tip. Next the playgrounds and fairs. Circus clowns and rango-ringo lions hooping fire – waggo-waggo within; is the tragic stimulus crossed out of books, of recorded systems? Don't know. Today we have watched a play on how horror films function – that reflection goes zig zag! around countless shards of mirrors that break – I will, towards, the opera, – leave. The carnival of venice; fools. Precious billy and joe. Wives and husbands in moustached limousine. Roses and present. Tenor and lipsticks.


I do not know why I am the tragic hero.


In circles people arrive and they see. Don't kill the magic that you are given. It is comedy when death; it is tragedy when – blackens. Blackens. Where the light shone lies now a ritual; the ritual cleaning everyone away from arrogance, the peacock's snow, cock, cock. Who I am. Monsieur, please, the seat. Madame, your rose. Laughing on cue and only ethanol distilled permitted. Drink, drunk you. Colossal the wreck. Cross. They're wearing a suit. What a flatterer this hyperbole is, gone with the wind as the silver fragrant trumpets blow in a ballroom, you and I. Singing and dancing with glasses of wine and the glass shoe. You are wearing satin, I, a devil's black and a suit. Together let us waltz; violin intermezzo and the significant other's pause. Let us go amidst the sleazy tone and air to a crisp and alert, benign, rhapsody. We are mourning microscopically. Before the orgasm of wealth and health; let us drink to it. But I am, you too, at a play. Elegant. Elegant are the jabberwockies that sing beneath stage, hee! hee! hee! I could walk eleven times round, past the artificial garden of plastics and glass, and cream and mists, too, to the swing where I'll hang my rope and be there, hung. Blow, cried the wind, and blew. I'll hang there to dry, like Caesar who stabbed, like Pagliacci. This comedy is over. No, it has only just begun.


I do not know I am the tragic hero.


As I'm giving myself a blow job, chewing on oyster shells and one-night cheap hotels; starts it. Clo! Portia, Jessica, some more, some more, Juliet in aubergine and Rosemary in black, widow's gloom, past the brightest orange of all when it is dusk. Tea for two. Come one, stretch it tight on plates of macaroons and glasses – crystal – of juice and wine and cognac – stretch it like the trombones and brasses in the entertainer, sorry clown, fool, yea like how we do when we make love. Bam bam! mad once more. Jesus! we've never been so long. So lonely, that I'm destined to resign, eye closed, Odin, a-sleepin'. Soundtrack: collection of Chopin and Paganini and Bach with Stephen Foster. Out there I see Jeannie with the light brown hair, soft and sweet in the autumn wind, where all hair passionately flows. Menu – caviar in a truffle emulsion with leek and asparagus, clam chowder mixed with vinegar jus. Music: Violins and Glenn Gould. Horowitz. I am clasping the play's leaflet in my hand. More; Haydn and Peter Illych. On; escargots perched upon foie gras with raspberry confetti. Carpets that stain red. The sound of silence and that of dawn that breaks. Steak with wormwood and arsenic as poisoned vine music rams the speakers shut; violins, violins' infectious strings, tragedy, phantoms that wait in phantasm. Come cake, stained, whitish sort of liquid dripping one by one down the napkins and serviettes, hey, salty taste, caramel? No, semen. Choked? You can gag on this. The gowns that sweep me off my feet. Plates are never cleared and we stack them just to one side, heaps and heaps of porcelain broken like diamond. Bursting with emotion and blood, swellin those! Bowls. A free champagne that resides in cheap bulk, with flavours that say, too, so. We are ready, good night, do not disappoint.


I am the tragic hero.


I am the tragic hero of the age presented forth, front of us. My eyes are small but full of fury. Stare at me, go on! I am the climax. Sadness that triumphs nothing else to triumph, a record book of one victor, zero losers. Jerry, come out, butler Bill! Moon river/ wider than a mile/ I'm crossing you in style some day/ hey, rap rap a Bella Heart apparition with Mickey Mouse upon the wood stage where the hero's casket lies open or closed. Now it is closed. There's nothing inside that you want to see. Everyone's crying. Devotions upon Emergent Occasions – no man is an Iland, my holy, my holy sonnet. K. Shantih, pause, shantih, pause, shantih. Just imagine Sanskrit with a little horseback desert in one of its backgrounds of history. Balakirev and that painting. One of nudes, Dali painted. The stage flashes with pathos. Ethos? Logos? I sense screens of smoke that cover up what they're truly trying to say, as if a black bird would come and eat them all. Squirming in my seat. Let me permit myself to read the synopsis. Peace. Ho. The ships are sinking upon cruel seas enacted with tables and tabletops. I want to see the bottle of glass the floats within it for seventy years, a code, a faint message. Deus. Ex machina; by Jove, haven't you learnt to tell the time? O darling. I am so sorry. I have two tickets. Happy birthday. I love You.


The promontory that lags. O sweet dream, I mourn for you. A lake within he who drops. Kavar, kavar, solando. In in in. Towards a certain goal of spring, in sprig leaves and warmed fries. How fitting to cure simply and miracle. What is this performance and its message? I simply do not comprehend. There is a subtle lack. Lacking otherwise are honour and justifiable pride, and tragedy. For why? why are there not the simple souls who die in tragedy, frozen by time and its forgetting? There is comedy, but it is not black. I have been let down. Lastly will poems be orated. As with all functions, they are incoherent. I think I made you up inside my head. The figment; the oily serum that cascades down virgin waterfalls of life and innocence. Do not ever let yourself get deflowered. That is the end. Lights return. I shudder, for the theatre has too been transformed. Seats black, creaking, empty with the crowd. I shudder. This place is cold. I know not a single soul. They are unreal – or maybe I am the ghost that brings fear into all of them and their happiness. I am pitied, for I am pitiful. Doors swing and I vanish into the night. Ten o'clock, I hear song from the cathedrals on the streets, mass or just the crescent shining high in the sky. Angels are singing. I do not think that they will sing to me. The tragedy they have understood, and conquered with tremendous willpower. But I am tragedy.


Every single time I make my way into the theatre I realize that I am alone. I am not seen, much less understood. But it is mainly my solitude and the lack of someone to buy tickets for, to pamper, to love that brings me to such a forced indecision. It is absurd that the theatre forbids brutal, honest love. For they cannot love and are hence husks and claws scuttling across silent seas. A better ending than I am. Let us go, you and I, let us go to the theatre together, you in my arms, just you and me.


As absurd as the theatre is, I dwell within its heart and soul. But I do not think that I shall come back to it.