Pat Kinsella: electric, archtop and acoustic guitars, guitar synthesizer, fretless bass, fretted bass, trumpet, doutar, djembe, clay madal, darbuka , bhangra dhol, voice, CPAP tubing and water-filled cat chow bowls.
how preposterous is it to cathect the striated yellow toenails, sharp, corroded and apathetic, yet brilliant in their proud disdain for any hint of vanity? The hair in tangled knots replete with adornments of forest litter? Meanwhile, in swaddled bedlam, thoroughly licentious diatribes flinch tersely enough for mere diodes to light the paths of midnight caterpillar footsteps. Rubbery soft, deep red rose petals fill the air with their intoxicating sweetness. Come spread open the dew-covered musky sweetness of your flower for me darling cause I want to assimilate it into my being. Because henceforth, pockets full of organza beauties will feign to bode well into early morning only to flap and shake winsome inflictions upon the mongrel tribes that no longer even bear their own names. Beckoning like a lantern placed on the windowsill at home to guide me on the long dark walk; after a long day, after a long morning, after a long again night. But when will we say “ENOUGH!”? Like cattle being led to slaughter. Immersed in forgotten wizardry; in subsumed dungeons, walls spattered with the blood of electric eels. It gives cause for only the wariest of lagomorphs to placate that lonely threshold. And thereby, nightcrawlers, moist and mucosa covered, entangle the slipperiness – wet and gritty, and cold. Cold as the rigor of old dead. So there they writhe, hypothermic in the blood and mud, life draining from their every pore, as we too lie under the same frozen blue light of a n o t q u i t e full moon. Only to somehow again be renewed by the earth’s intrinsic fecundity. Dictated by the same old rules of engagement, only spoken of by us in the dearest of terms we wanted so, so, badly to know so, so, well. Until we are able to once again breathe the sweet springtime air in earnest. Or so we would like to think. Because the movement, angulations, different facets we impose on the backdrop of illusory time continue to search for something, to complete, to make meaningful, this collage of dreams, nightmares, desires. It is illusory, but life is exactly no more and no less than this.
©2008 Patrick J. Kinsella