all my frankensteins

Enjoying the fine sunny weather while back in our beloved Chez Moose, it was decided that it would be great fun to rifle through the attic, to play treasure hunt and perhaps make some room for other furniture, paintings and tchotchkes that might soon be exiled for a few years, or decades, as it were.
While going through boxes, tucked in an old copy of FMR magazine and underneath an ancient bottle of Pepto Bismol, (Often, I have much more fun at Rite Aid than in a club. Maybe I'm just getting older and pharmacy is becoming the only place of relief) I found a note, a poem by Blake I had copied down, (with some lyrics to a Marily Manson song written in the margins.) I have often thought the two of them would make the most stimulating dinner partners.
About the note- funny that, the pages still had the faint scent of Guerlain's Jicky perfume on them after all this time. (I would absolutely bathe in it back then- did you know it is a favorite of Sir Sean Connery? yes he wears it, big secret though, shhh.) as I opened the Pepto, checking it as if it were an ancient wine jug from an Egyptian tomb, I gazed at the written page, it is a pretty good tale, or at least part of one, it is not to be tossed aside lightly, if anything it should be thrown with great force as it is rife with latent goth angst. The Pepto however was delegated to the bin, but I made a mental note to go shopping for more later. Pepto Bismol, hmmm... magic Pepto... it may be very common for Americans , but it could be something amazing for a stranger. It is so rare to have fun while sick (usually sick and happy goes straight to Bellevue) .... but look at that combination of yellow/pink! It tastes like a melted Barbie, the pill looks like a smart drug very popular in the 90's and the new cherry flavour adds some red to the ensemble. Why can't other meds we buy be as conceptual as that?
Oh well, here's the poem, written down and stashed away for some long forgotten reason...

To The Accuser Who is The God of This World
Truly My Satan thou art but a Dunce

And dost not know the Garment from the Man

Every Harlot was a Virgin once

Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan

Tho thou art Worship'd by the Names Divine

Of Jesus & Jehovah thou art still

The Son of Morn in weary Nights decline

The lost Travellers Dream under the Hill

(And this, was written in the margins:)

The sky was blonde like her
It was a day to take the child
Out back and shoot it.
I could have buried all my dead
Up in her cemetery head
She had dirty word witchcraft
I was in the deep end of her skin.
Then, it seemed like a one car wreck
But I knew it was a horrid tragedy.
Ways to make the tiny satisfaction disappear. Blow out the candles
On all my frankensteins.
At least my death wish will come true.
You taste like Valentine's and
We cry,
You're like a birthday.
I should have picked the photograph
It lasted longer than you. Putting holes in happiness.
We'll paint the future black
If it needs any color.
My death sentence is a story
Who'll be digging when you finally let me die?
The romance of our assassination
If you're Bonnie, I'll be your Clyde.
But the grass is greener here and
I can see all of your snakes.
You wear your ruins well
Please run away with me to hell.

Hmmm. Well, at least it seems my penchant for dramatics, written or otherwise, has remained intact over the years, non?

Cheers!
Morbid Angel

2 oz Cutty Black Scotch whisky
2 oz Southern Comfort peach liqueur
2 oz Absinthe herbal liqueur Stir equal parts of each ingredient together in a mixing glass. Strain into a glass, and serve.
I present a video for your entertainment:


Ataraxia (Ἀταραξία) is a Greek term used by Pyrrho and Epicurus for a limpid state, characterized by freedom from worry or any other preoccupation.
For the Epicureans, ataraxia was synonymous with the only true happiness possible for a person. It signifies the detached and balanced state of mind that shows that a person has transcended the material world and is now harvesting all the comforts of philosophy.
For the Pyrrhonians, owing to one's inability to say which sense impressions are true and which ones are false, it is quietude that arises from suspending judgment on dogmatic beliefs or anything non-evident and continuing to inquire. The experience was said to have fallen on the painter Apelles who was trying to paint the foam of a horse (likely a bit of frothy saliva near its mouth). He was so unsuccessful that in a rage he gave up and threw the sponge he was cleaning his brushes with at the medium, thus producing the effect of the horse's foam. The Stoics, too, sought mental tranquility, and saw ataraxia as something to be desired and often made use of the term, but for them the analogous state, attained by the Stoic sage, was apatheia or absence of passion...