Crow Amuses Himself #3: Apocalypse Disco

smoking crow

© Larry Vienneau.

(A Gibbering Fool Presents)

Apocalypse Disco

Pfff! The dust is settling and everyone’s suddenly playing the existential blues on a vintage guitar with two strings while some journalistic hack bangs away on an old, broken piano tuned by an establishment that can only summon enough cognitive prowess to think in black and white.

The proverbial arse has fallen out of the universe it seems, and what else can us ne’er-do-wells do but sniff it up like a line of cheap rate coke cut with a dose of tranquillisers and prance around like getting trashed is somehow rebellion.

Welcome, welcome one and all to the Apocalypse Disco, first Extermination Event where humanity’s vaunted superiority is nothing more than an odious old bastard wheezing the last drag out of a dirty roll-up, a cancerous old clot of a human being who’s about to put his history on the prayer wheel….

And behold! Such prayers are blasphemies I tell you! What will you do when you return, eternally cycled over and over like a broken record that never gets rid of that irritating little pop, crackle, pop…….? You pray that the effluent of your spirit will be poured back into the vessel of another chance but you won’t even take the time to brush the fluff from your spinning platter of revelation!

Who is the fool? And who, who is the deity that possessed just the requisite tool for the removal of spiritual lint? Heed now and await the dance of the dead as I, the almighty and impeccably tasteful Crow become DJ to your inevitable demise.

[You take me aside, indicate that I should perchance cleanse the white tracery of excess from about my respiratory nozzles and ask just what in the name of the Seven Hells I’m prattling on about.]

Prattling? I never prattle, I just provide preamble to the party of all parties, the final party at the End of Creation itself. A wise man once said that Death is but Sleep being shy, so for the love of music, put your party pants on and just pretend that when you lay your head down tonight, exhausted from exertions, you aren’t just practising for the inevitable.

Meanwhile the eternal PA is playing all of the divine’s favourite tunes, for pre-Destined or un-Destined, whatever your destination, you’ll end up on my floor – even if you’ve no eyes and ears like an almighty, vengeful thunder bastard who’s begging the question of just who the hell stole his damn boom box?

You must be ever so sly, my friends, if you wish to purloin the pure beats of Heaven, and even while you raise your hands to the celestial jungle boogie that rises over the horizon of the Anthropocene you must fend off the sense of mortality, that fragile thing we are subverting in the name of hedonistic nihilism, and instead cavort like chimpanzees scratching our posteriors in search of relief. Or belief……

Give it a sniff because you think no one is looking.

Humanity at it’s most genuine! For even the greatest of apes can chuck shapes. Most of the time, that is, and you might dance oh-so-well when compared to that fellow over there who just doused himself in petrol and stepped outside for a cigarette. The room is on fire, and so are you! Hit me one more time! That’s the Apocalypse Disco. Keep on keeping on and let the mood move you towards the revelation!

Oh sweet revelation!

What did it cost? The mere shrug of an accountant! Listen to their plaintive coos of delight as they tally up the GDP of a global funeral: treatment, caskets, urns, and don’t forget the buffet! Business looks goods as the scales of eternity slip slide about and the prayer wheels fire up like damn Catherine Wheels on the rioting bonfire night of self actualisation. You’re getting it on like Guy Fawkes, moving, doing it, you know, like a sex machine man: the lame politics of sexy disco, lights flashing like wicks set sizzling by the matches of ignorance until sweet surrender is a detonation that lights up the face of a pyromaniac at an arms fair.

Dance, sweet flames, dance!

And in the fire of epiphany we shall discover that we are all soul stuff, the spiritual tar upon which temptation’s feathers gather as we fly too close to a nuclear furnace of civilisation! It all makes sense! You came here, again and again, like self-aware water poured from vessel to vessel, but so is begged the question: who turns the tap?

And what becomes of life when the reservoir runs dry?

Can we reasonable assume that there is only so much held in reserve of that metaphysical love juice? You are but one drop in an ocean, but what happens when drop after drop arrives wanting to be human? Are you just the artichoke that rolled the loaded dice and was delivered into another ape suit? No wonder the natural world is in decline! there is nothing to spare!

What? You can’t see yourself as a snail? No? The old bastard takes another wheezing lungful on his turgid rollie as he wishes only to be human again and again, draining the last kick out of the cigarette that is the material world. It’s not to even be considered how beneath them it might be to take the form of worm, or fungus, or blade of grass!

Oh to be green, small and bend in the wind, accepting the bare foot of the mystic upon my dew lined blade! Touch me, oh Sun!

Don’t cock your eye at me like that!

Let us cut to the chase, cut the mustard, nip the bud. Every living thing wants to go to the disco, so as the nulldozers are levelling the lungs of the earth and the cybernetic trans-humanist autolung draws the tainted air from the capitalist crack pipe, you shall be reincarnated as the greatest of species, homo saltatorus! And to hell with you Google Translate! No public school boys were harmed in the writing of this screed! What is the world coming to? You! You, the dancing apes at the end of the world!

You’re all here! Recycled like soylent green soul stuff that only wants to party like existential, phenomenological witnesses of the Apocalypse Disco!

We reach the Climax! The crescendo of a spiritual burden brought about by the ever-so-populous bum scratching ape, flinging what they find into the transcendent scales as they tip, precarious upon the edge of the Void, the living essence of the earth pouring out like a punctured wine sking while the incarnations of endless, cavorting dancers continue to sniff bemused fingers with the sole intention of waking up in a puddle of their own excretion after a clandestine romp through the hinterlands of promiscuity!

That’s right, this party is about to implode! Prayers can be sent via the great porcelain telephone!

Pff!

As the dust settles, the crooked dancers at the end of time light up and watch the smoke rise, content to know that they partied hard and all it cost was everything.

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