Freitag, 6. März 2015


by Constantin von Hoffmeister

"Mud unto mud! -- Death eddies near --Not here the appointed End, not here!"
-- Rupert Brooke, HEAVEN

And the Curator speaks: "It used to be me that had to wear that stupid sign. Now it is me that has to go and fetch water from the cellar. My wife Sophie is dead. She died two winters ago, during - what we now call - the Savage Storm. Really savage that son of a bitch was, too. It came and blew everything away in sight. Many fellas of mine died that fateful night, when the Savage Storm hit our coastal town. Mindville - no name to joke around with, that's for sure. But nevertheless my town was wasted, utterly and entirely. Clear and shiny as a baboon's ass, that's how it is now. You just don't wanna lick a street that reminds you of a baboon's ass. But that's exactly what the Board will make you do if you do not wear that stupid sign. I am not wearing it because I am the one who still has to go (every day, every morning, every evening) to fetch water from the cellar. Everybody else (male, female, children, - hell! - even little babies) has to wear that stupid sign - a CERT certificate, the Board calls it. A shit for brains, I say, that's what that stupid sign signifies." The Curator sits back down. After all, wisdom never struck in BOLD LETTERS. Dark wall screaming mouths tight shut. In the end and in the future - Mindville, Tennessee: museum in a bubble, tight-lipped service to a dream encasing all and all, bullwhipped and chained and dominatrixed deeper deeper led into the eternal bliss of a gluttonous abyss, heretical cannibals with teeth filed down - the prey a soft flesh box bubbling with internalized lies, CERT-fed puppets pale and sad, trapped in a cage of their own design, 'built' by elevated animals and guarded by the Board. Blood-less and oxygenized ... VATERLAND! ... VATERLAND! ... a faint scream choked in static. And the Curator speaks: "Now, I don't wanna preach here, but look around you, young men of tomorrow, and smell the bacon! I am talking to nobody here, I know, but a warning in silence might go a long way. All my dead fellas, dead and buried or burned and scattered (depending on their involvement), will surely hear this prayer. That's the darndest thing - 'think soul communication!' some all-brainer told me. Who am I to argue?" The Curator sits back down. It is clear as the Ancient Past's sky: THIS night may prove terminal. Deus ex Machina, usually kind and benevolent and of classical beauty - now drunk and babbling: "Salvation tentative!" - having Wallhallian fun tavern-stool crashes and blows all around, Met spilled and finally passed out - the Greek ideal drowned in Barbarian booze. On the wayward side a slide will pop up that will show one, two, three things: further, upwards, right. Of course, the Curator wakes up, and the Arrow is still pointing down. Among brigand rulers (individual souls that dictate and let die), the Gulag masses starve for extinction. An enduring empire must swallow its pride and follow the eternally 'sanctioned' and UGLY. Is it always convenient to keep history and theology apart? A question raised by multitudes of tanned and skinned alive meat market products, the show on display bobbing throbbing - squeezing out regeneration - resurrection in the tomb of utility. Supply and demand - always the first - never the latter - meat market products shut in and orgasmically chanting: "Once ... Twice ... In! ... Out! ... All we wanna do is do it!" WHAT is not rhetorical. And the Curator speaks: "I never lied to you, young men of tomorrow, at least not intentionally. I just told you what I've heard from my outside source. After all, someone had to escape the INFECTION to write regular reports." The Curator sits back down - and farts. 'No advance until dawn is clean and sterile!' The slogans silent echoed against walls bouncing back into hapless minds. 'Inherit the uninspiring and ineffectual dead!' A supreme technocratic diversion rectifying the Board's decisions - final and cold. Nightlife Philosophy now skimming past a slant-eyed movie screen, the audience all wrapped in plastic - pushed with fingers deep in holes the boundary a gap, the feminine stench an enticement device. The barren film of no good themselves. Not all lost in tune with time, but distorted, scratched and bold: blood and guts and never whine, valiant strugglers for the useless cause of status. 'Kin in the Bin!' The slogan fresh clear read and deeply resented. In Omega City, everything is clean and dirty, true and false - all for the benefit of the Board.

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