A weedy florilegium

“Well, we had to start from somewhere” was the claim. “Monarchs, we may be, but from bloodshed toward Babylon were we engineered.” The man standing before you, clean cut from the dusty bowels of a peculiar industry, could not help himself from rambling restlessly on the linguistic constructions of the age. Charismatic but depleted of substance, he wielded whimsically the intuitions of his comrades, friends and antagonizers; or so it was thought. “It” — but who may have thought it; and it, so some may have fought it. “No one thinks on these matters, like before, as one once was demanded”; before when? “We date ourselves to the time before the languid tremors emerged into precipitates to decadence” — still vacuity.

Questions of the sort which demand a datum as their answer imbibe of the boredom and triviality current in our age. The mystic, the mandolin and the marauder mend the sweltering sick stink of their noisome institutions, which demand only allegiance of spirit. “And so the monarchs play their violins, with urgency, celerity and clamor.”

Pedestrians of language demonstrate sharp contrast with the peripatetics, the pedants, unprompted by the platitudes which shockingly persuade. Gestures, postures and positions unfold into agreement and concordance of the facts with the great words of a generation. One’s hand is held by the climate of the most mundane intellect, even as those who could not liberate themselves to our stature, as those who cannot be, as those slumber in the havens of their world’s mind.