A development in my personage, that world oriented me-ward, an inclination towards the bonded persuasion, where as yet today I revel in my own freedom. The prospectus is a prospective perspective from behind bars?
What the hell did the pro’s from Yankton pull, here? The bagman went with the prescribed fifty, the filthy lucre for which they were to spread amongst their own familiars in dark corners, and meanwhile the bagman afear of getting his throat cut either in transit, or supposedly safe at his appointed destination.
Reticent then, among all persons, that pervading miasma that we might lose what we take as a fundament, indeed, a guarantee written on old parchment, from that Foggy Bottom, that yes, we might lose that, too, like we lost everything, and we were not born with a damned thing anyway, but hatched without even clothing, needing to be given a blanket by whoever happens to be in the room, that we might cover up our own nakedness and affect a state of decency.
Mind that state of decency is not natural to man. The Apostle Paul, in the third chapter of the book of Romans makes the case why we are all hell-bound, and in later chapters, he throws the law-abiding Jews under the bus, too, because damn them, too, because they won’t break bread with you, and even heathen dirt-worshippers and celestials will come by and sit, because naturally speaking, man is a social animal, and not unaccustomed to sin and debauchery.
My own fetters, I made mention of earlier.
I put fetters on myself, so that I am hindered from having the full enjoyment, the full proper measure of life, and woman on my knee, a thumb in a pooper hole, and some grapes-in these dreams there is always a bowl of grapes, sitting stupidly as if waiting for some Picasso jackass or Goya to happen by and take a sort of liking-in a bowl, stupid eye balls, brainless eyeballs, staring in a 360-degree full view fashion, but comprehending nothing and conveying just as much as real stupid eyes on a real stupid person.
Paul also coined the epic much-used phrase “mortify the flesh”, as if to say one could actually change his own nature, which sounds just like some simple object of whim, with a good altruistic, even healthy, motive behind it, and yet those old wants, those old bad ways call us back and we want to throw a torch on the witch bonfire and watch the flames dance higher and higher.
Maybe I’m just gob-smacking punchdrunk-like off my own dull life, behind my “malignant life experience”, digging my pity-pit, here as if a vagrant in the public library, playing pocket pool, leaning against the stacks with my head against the Browning and Frost and Dickinson.
Been a great day, friends. Wish I could bottle the feeling and send some to you, so that you might enjoy it too, like some Dandelion Wine or some such.