SYZYGYMAN

A Gothic Modern | Chapter Interlude : The Pergola

dark gothic pergola forest

SYZYGYMAN

or,

THE CONTEMPORARY PROMETHEUS

In Three Chapters

Always go too far, because that's where you'll find the truth. — Albert Camus

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Chapter Interlude : The Pergola

And so here we must travel to a nearby Infinity. Not so long. Not so short. So we may fulfill a Promise that is misunderstood.

Join me. Join me at the pergola. Join me at the joiner that is the pergola, half way beyond the midpoint between the star pedals and the waste-nots that, in abundance and compression, form a facade, a bricolage of neutral lavenders and bluish pinks so as to create a loneliness of perspective, an abrasion of disinterested crosshatching, swopsy inclines, brutish declines and absent architecture to make even the vanishing point a desireable thing.

It was desireable.

I wanted to vanish.

We did desire to vanish from this lovely thing. This lovely lonely World. And so we compressed ourselves between forced perspective of soda and jam into glass to force everything else out of pergola. Everything microscopic. Like thoughts, decisions, beliefs and awareness. People and their new inventions. Universality. Even Art. Leaving only the ancient soil or earth, the pergola and actions. And actions we became. As soda and jam crept forth from the squeeze of microscopic glass. Here’s what my living wife and I did on the pergola under buzz and nutty smell of the Early Spring

the tweet of a bird and it is early morning

no talk to resume or begin after that one glance barely missed if not for a candle that had not blown out and the magnetism of our pouty faces burnishing around our wet eyes, oily raisins pressed into scone dough

nightgowns and kertwillies on, wearable soft bedrooms are they dash out to the pergola under moon to moon under pergola each pissing the fine tuned evening into dark morning’s puddle of ragtime piccolo jazz. Naturally, it ends with the silent warp of dueting, nay feuding! liquid pools of two moons moronically heaving in our urine

That is the intro

Here’s what’s begun

wrought twisty enameled iron blossom with cement tablet seat and lotus table of equal design crashed to the inside intestinal wall. A tiny cement chip in my eye and one installed into her cheek, a dark ruby bead now presenting

rolling tray set with glass pitchers of orange juice, Algier blood tangerine juice, blackmarket blue quince juice from Morocco, small crystal tower pitcher claiming headache relief through bromide seltzer and mirrors of cocaine slam’d into the walls leaving our naked toes aghast at the nuked piles of crystal plummage

I am certain that we are certain that our toes are certain of certain damnation. More is the thing of wealth of dark ruby beads, I suspect

She is now a blur as she demonizes the entire first floor of every big small and tiny thing or entertainment that she can drug to the inside entrance to the pergola. Hercules’ wife indeed?

I proceed to take every inch of her massive instant sculpture and pull from it all the seeds I will sperm to the interior tube of our situation, lashing everything willy nilly to all unthinkable places. Creating a new map of survival. Survival from the crass. Survival from whats do new. Survival from what is right snd what works so good. Survival from class and deported minds and rejection of loneliness. Survival from Anti Art Anti Artists Anti Life Anti Shit Anti Anything. Anti Everything. Anti Me is You. In essence: Survival from Survival. And this raggedy new map that is cancering the pergola is growing

Now for the heaving of our second floor

I shall do that action. As a note the brut cement floors of the pergola are also in constant modern flux, being abstracted by our bloody footprints of our comings from our action. Lions pacing a New Modernism of anger and complete Zen detachment. The calligraphy of our New Language. The roar of the Now. And the escape from it.

Back to my action. But the action is done. And still under moonlight.

The garbage of fine polished cherrywood of beds couches chairs loveseats hankypanky fetish stools drawers drawers within drawers musical boxes jewelry boxes merry illegal dildos legal toilet settees for the married. Every blasted wooden thing I can drag hurl or empty out of windows down the stair and through doors now imperceptible have been decamp’t and decramp’t out and into an evolving pile in the pergola

This also means war on every other fiberbased thing including all sheets and fine clothes expensive satin shoes and sane underwear drips of papers waves of books a tornado of textile a windfall of bills and especially Art!

Art

Remove Art. Exile Art. Cancel Art

Fuck Art

All of it

Now

The nearly the entire house has been self ingested. Cannibalized. Acidly refluxed into the throat of the pergola

My wife lashes pastes fetishizes all of it licketysplit! onto the interior of the pergola now bulging out the shaft of the thing. She does this with merciless detachment

I am quite and firmly stimulated

But I have one final song to sweep. And that is to sweep every glass porclain plastic and metal thing from the house. Both floors plus the attic the cellar the secret drawing room the Sunning Room Meditation Tondo Art Studio Reception Area Spy Closet to the Reception Area Atelier Coctail Party Room our chic near dark Slender Long Bar and the Out House

All plucked undefrock’t and revirginized

The song of such action as composed and performed over wooden floor then over the cement floor then tied stuff’t or jamm’d into the now craggy tight interior of the pergola is the Melody of Ages indeed. I am only happy to have included our Oriental Gong to equalize our nerves after the orgasmic crescendo

Sweaty near naked bloody bruised and torn up we stood facing each other in the new tube of our existence

Our breath now vaping along beams of the emerging clear morning Sun

The Beauty of the Disaster dripped from every moist open lip of our bodies

Eventually a second crescendo was heard

{6am — 8:30am Connecticut US}

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