That's my final word on the subject.
Well, this is, this post, my final words on the subject.
And it won't be nothing. It can't be nothing.
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty years??? I don't know, and I don't care. 24/7, too. I never close. 365 days a year.
On the cliffs? On the beaches? In the lanes? Whatever!
At "home" ... for a while longer. Yeah, yeah. Wherever!
And you're wondering ...
How is it possible? How will it be possible?
Two ways.
Let me tell you: My personal anger, boiling over, like the guns of the Navarone. You understand, kooks? That's one way. Combined with a bit of desperation, like Alexander spotting Darius. It all helps. / The other way is ... spiritual forces in my corner. My astrologer? God knows where he is, but I know he's pulling the strings. He's arranged all this. Yeats? Just seven days after my situation changes ... he comes to me, dragging Heaney with him - to make a point, no doubt. Two great modern poets, Nobel Prize winners ... saying, "Come on, son. The time for games is over."
Well, I ain't playing.
I know, oh, I know how serious everything is.
I've listened, you see. I know what the cosmos wants now. Like the Karate Kid, I had no idea why I had to write all those lines, in conceptuals, and regular posts. No one told me the meaning of it. I was in the dark.
But the light has been turned on!
Music? Those tunes were just to humour me. I understand.
The lyrics just like poetry, that's what they really wanted. Yes, they tricked me, but I'm not angry.
I'm not angry - with them, I mean.
They only want what's best for me. Not like the living, you know? I can trust dead poets. And my astrologer already saved me once, from the chaos, years ago, but I don't talk about it. The hissing of hell, ha! Those who know will know. Some will imagine. So be it. I can't go back, only forward.
Yeats had his own troubles ... with that cretin Crowley. And I don't think he talked about that.
Anyway ...
The cosmos is pissed off. I can tell. Not with me. With the world, with people. Do you understand? Revenge is coming. Real subtle, real clever. I'm just an instrument. I don't mind, and it could be worse.
I could be normal. FFS.
And when my job is done? Well, I'm telling Yeats now, because he's the one with the power, the supernatural magician/poet ... I wanna be a cosmic dolphin, man! Flying through space, seeing all the stars, all the planets. Karajan became an eagle over the Alps. That was nice for him, sure. But I deserve more than that. After all my suffering, all my sacrifices.
And after what I'm going to do next ... ... ... that's not going to be a game of dominoes, is it?
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
Come on!
Billy, let's make it happen!
Dr M., let's make it happen!
Cosmos, let's make it happen!
ENDS
ENDS
ENDS
Ah, it's only the beginning!
