Igor

Like unto Jemma el Fina, his souk will take him.

Because, the philosopher said, the world is ringed by a great sea.
We will see, Igor figured.
And the trumpets blazed and the jungle encroached.

Now the openness of the world was like the presence of all history at once.
The fire that dances in the decisions we push for and pull out of once they’re made is spirit, and the world of well shaped forms this produces, is what made Igor enter this establishment.

Founder! He called out. Appear!
He was poured a drink at once.
Now Igor wandered to the billiard table and looked for the shot that would make the best use of the situation. He pulled, and shot the curve from the hip and banged the red into the blue as if the civil war was in its climax and the floor trembled, and a variety of apparitions took the stage.

First, the genie of Aladdin appeared, then Caesar, then Cleopatra and then a Chinese monk, or emperor… hard to discern…
Hail! Igor shouted. Cleopatra laughed.

A basement was found later on with some duckfeathers in it. Somehow, men wondered why.

Igor could be seen leaving the establishment with a satisfied grin on his face and a feather protruding out of the corner of his mouth.

Yes, quite satisfied was he. He thought to himself: “Like ambrosia from the gods!” as he patted his belly.

He flipped the gold coin through his fingers while King’s phrase resounded through his mind: “Life does change on a dime.”

Indeed it does.

He walked away dreamily as Cleopatra’s now-harmless Asp curled around Igor’s arm possessively. “My pet” he whispered as the Asp’s head snuggled cozily against the palm of Igor’s hand.

“Where are we going now and what is our purpose, little pet?” mused Igor. The Asp could be heard whispering the words - “We shall seek out and find our little niche in the world. It shall be revealed all in due time - piece-meal. The journey is the THING!”

Igor smiled." I’m glad I found you, little treasure." "Ah, yes, thought the little Buddha-like Asp.

And the little odd Buddha thing faced Igor, springing off from the bracelet posture, hissing,
and pissing
Out of the venom he so much longed for,

But it is for Cleo I saved this,
This ejaculate was so wrongly extricated,

Got it now: it was Cleo he sought,
(The souk for which multitudes would give manna
Discovered or came as gift?- no mere coincidence )

Ito was Cleo, whom bit he, so as not to parade her forlorn and disheveled frailty among the rubble, diamonds thrown before the swine.

He declared, “Nichts Weiss der von mir”, as he threw the puzzle away, it lunging deep, down an ever narrowing abyss.

And as such the deepest grabbed him , his
consciousness ebbing , away and away, his mission,

Clearer, the hold on him gradually loosening, the dark one realizing this treachery he could finally not
account for.

For, if this detachment was soon to end, and re-
attachment follow, what grotesque sights is he

condemned to trail?

T
his humongous creature, binding and plunging simultaneously, the creature he becomes, can not,

but simplify, either into a caricature, or,
a

of the minutest fluttering.

Igor tumbled out of bed, Cleo, oh Cleo now only a
very faintly reminiscent droplet in an sea of

transgression.

Oh, Stolze Ocean!

The sun set, and at the same time it rose.
Igor went to sleep, and at the same time woke up.

In his dream he received a letter, which was addressed to him in Paris.

The sun rose and Igor plummeted into the churning dualism of waking awareness remembering, remembering…

He had never lived in Paris, but he knew that he had to go.

He called Vigor, a first in his life, who arranged a ticket and a room, which he made sure to stack with wines and chreeses.

Days later, Igor could be seen sailing down the Seine on a barge, drinking his cafe au lait and staring hungrily at the pretty little thing in the red French beret wearing the short, pleated skirt. As she looked his way, he turned away. Her lips curled up in a triumphant smile albeit she knew he was simply a peon. Others, many, many others, of such high stature and demeanor, had entertained her and served her well. “Still…”, she thought to herself.

She threw back her head and laughed heartily ~ "Je suis venu, j’ai vu, j’ai vaincu!

Well, he thought to himself, I set this this up, no , I was set up. To come here, to this place used to be a safe harbor for wild left bankers, and it has seen many in good form to be sure.

H
e was far from home, on the wings of Vigor, with Sandra’s blessing, by the arte of the most outlandish and fabulous magicke, wearing a great ring as big as a
city block, in order to transform it’s bite, into the realism , away from the longing of the maidens, who considered stolen.

But what was stolen? Or lost? From useless underwater near glimmer for those eyes, only, who
dove so far, that they would decompress for fear of

surfacing too quick, ?

Where among those in this city who went down like a

rock, as Rene Crevel suffering double jeopardy, chronic aberration of the imago, distortions of
Now the ring, stolen revealed, the wearer of
supposed emperor’s clothes.

The magic is cure for bizarre optical effects, and he could have dropped her, but couldn’t, squeezed between the lofty stature of a long unsettled project and the question of her soul. Which will win?

That is what’s behind Vigor’s formerly aka Votan’s power source, wondrously and strangely within the underbelly, the unstoppable burst of hope springs eternal that even he prostrated to, whereby all bets in?

Must do, the magicians were of a constant and patient users of a medicine gentle and kind, which have been given ovation at curtain, many, many, :
that love for 3 oranges, where his under-ground
journey, led him to such limitless terrain?

Or, must he wither, as Neil said, it’s better to, …then

to rust?

OMIGOD, he thought that magick to ride him to 7 th
hell, then not raise her to the same in heaven. On the
seventh horse of an endless end.

She crooned somebody has to do it, this trumpets,
seven hornets, and finally opening with seventh key.

Someone has to do it, and God only knows how
foretold, his journey, mapped beforehand, by
symbols as varied and rich,
Illuminated manuscript carefully labored upon for the longest time,
Longer then it took the largest battle known to man, as Stalingrad fell, over a million in graves ,
The unknown soldier, even now, a dear to some maiden broken-hearted, deprived of promising progeny.

No, it is only a transfiguration, a keen whistle in the semi-dark deep azure, where the breath’s feint mark upon the glass,
Darkly through?

And he called her out on it, and very slowly and quietly saying, 'where were you then, when I screamed this,
In a Howl, you, one of the best minds of our generation?

He shouted it into the deeply hidden ring, and it echoed back something so incredibly faint.

The red letter, balanced against the black, where is here the fulcrum, that should be placed , for you,
Should the short of it ever be on your side, so as not to seem too much leverage give rise to much slack?

Correction: last stanza- replace red letter with scarlet: maybe?

Igor had sat reading French existentialism at a little cast iron table in the sun. His mind was no longer able to form coherent thoughts, and whenever he tried to formulate an idea or intention, he wasnt able to fit the verb to the substantive and basically he was just swimming in a soup. He ordered onion soup. He ate, as the sun went down over the Sacre Coeur and he wandered off into Monmartre.
In a portico, he found an axe. “This night could get interesting” he thought. Finally, his mind had cohered.

With axe in hand he formulated a plan. The soup was delicious. The plan was based on the idea that the way things were going life.becoming.meaning less in terms of the excercise of the will, his will, the nihilism an unsuccesful belly gazing, he must do something wity the axe.

But the question as to what to do with the ax proved insoluablle until.now,it.was just dead weight t be carried around, .

France was a foregone conclusion after all how long can the old artifacts be conserved without the public loosing interest
In the ancien period
So he thought the soup will be always be there as a comfort

But remebering the old man telling him a populace can only be held at bay as long as beef bourgonon is plentiful to be had, a warmness enveloped his stomach.

Come hell and or high water as the soup thikens and art for art , sake the recepe be forgotten
As mcarthur park is melting in the rain .

So as he was saying the key is that mean8ngless preshadows the gravity of unreason and mob rule

Such as these toughts and warnings by the likes of collin wilson.nietzche and khrishnamurti.and others may have absolutely nothing at the time but now do

And the idea of.going over to the vasts french forests and cutting down some trees with it may appear equally vacuous to him and as a result he decided tol stay in the coffee and decided to vanture far more as lionized as thrilling an experience, unafraid of the van gogish strarry night closing in, while hearing the faint whirring of the remebrences of the past through the little machine parked next to the bottle of whisky set in a glistening bowl.

Definitely, a hut in Alzac Lorraine is out, he is not some character at some beginning of some early century.all hopefully pregnant of all the future vistas to come may disclose.

He became a transitory realist.

Igor began to realize that metaphysical certainty is the dung that populates maggots of thought. He has found no redemption in philosophy, religion or myth. What then is left him but dreams? But then, his dreams are about philosophy, religion and myth. And yet he would not surrender to solipsism or nihilism.

Igor retraced his steps while scratching his head. “Just what is this life all about?” he thought to himself. “What are all these strange thoughts and imaginings which keep dancing through my head?”. “Oh, they’re giving me such a headache!” Igor stood still for a moment with his eyes closed.

Then Igor decided to go and spend some time walking through Monet’s most awesome stunning gardens. “Everything becomes completely “right with the world” when I’ve spent time there, just walking, observing all of the beautiful flowers ~ ah, those vivid colors!” What a work of love, what a profound work of creation Monet brought into existence. I can almost believe that there is some kind of co-creator who inspired that radiant panoramic canvas. Yes, I shall go there and sit in my favorite spot on that stone bench which holds the carving of Chloris and listen to the water flowing nearby. So beautiful ~ so very beautiful ~ that blue-flowing liquid enhanced by such a rainbow of colors. Iris, I bow before you in all of your beauty!

“Ah, life can at times be beautiful - not perfect but still ~~ beautiful”. Tears could be seen streaming down from Igor’s eyes.

An old man was following Igor, talking about his son and the pointlessness of life. Igor didnt get depressed, though. He just intended to either not grow old, or when he did, do so decently. Not become one of those geezers that try to wring the juice out of every young piece of life.

He and the old geezer in his trail strolled through Parc Luxembourg and then Igor saw Vigor standing on the balustrade. He said pardon-goodbye to the old man and was led into the castle.

The axe flew off and the old man went to have a pastice.

Later in the evening , Madamoiselle Sandra appears, looking disheveled and morose, her beautiful face covered by smeared lipstick. They are sitting around the bar, and she collapses into a divan next to the terrace, sobbing miserably.

Vigor holds her hands, while she shakes them loose.
Igor looks into this vignette as if confounded. He is already shaken from incidences described previously, and so unable to formulate a thought. The most he can eek out is 'What has happened"?

Igor’s little Buddha snake slithered up his arm toward Igor’s shoulder and then slowly, oh so slowly, nestled his face in Igor’s ear. The snake whispered: “Do not fret, my friend. Do not be alarmed. Simply Release, Relax, Let Go. All shall be revealed to you in your state of calm and detachment.” What is not revealed is waiting in the wings for another day - a day in which you shall be made more ripe for its epiphany.

“Ah”, thought Igor. “how could I have forgotten about you, Beelzebub.” “No worries” whispered Beelzebub. “You and I are a team, Iggy!”

Then Igor could be seen :-" as he looked up into that pale moon in the early afternoon sky. “How strange” he thought. "The moon looks as if it had been gently inserted into an invisible part of the sky, like a pocket so to speak. “The world really is so inexplicable” Igor mused but most gratefully so ~ and then sighed contentedly.

Beelzebub sighed too and gradually oh so gently pulled his face out of Igor’s ear and rested it solemnly on Igor’s shoulder. “Hmmmm…”

The little Faustian thing, with change of heart-returns into the yawning gap of hell’s hole proportions glints, his eye’s streams throwing boulders of torturous malice into her direction, where Sandra is meditating in a natural setting.

She, alighted on a lotus, with charming dragonflies throwing scarab like shells of sea urchins multicolored shells of unbelievable spectra of dispersed prismic shows of light, with wondrous babbling brooks and charming and vast interperced silences , all candy rapped with an absolving sense of forgiveness for the terrible acts of an angry God; and Sandra her six palms upstratched moons a delectable verse of faintly audible tonus.

The Faustian being craving her protection transmutes into an ear crawler, and typically, separating his two tails, disappears into the vast crevasses inside, and makes delicious apartments in the windmills of her mind.

The Faustian being consumed its way through the brain of the She-ess but to no harm, as her mind is nonlocal, and void is its best conductor.

‘Glad to hear that’, she said resoundingly.

Igor wishes that his dreams
Be only of fishes in fertile streams.
Tired and disgusted
With ideas he trusted,
Igor asks only the charity
Of personal clarity.