Once upon a time there was a lyre called Liar. This is the story of Liar. Liar went away, but never completely. She lurks there, her strings bent, broken and out of tune. Sometimes she weeps, and when she weeps it sounds soft and sad, like music. But she would ask you not to harp on that.
Liars or lyres, Sisyphus or Samson, roses or white lilies; how does it matter? That white flower that I saw that day was the flower of death, she smelt strange like death, she tasted stranger (than death) for you see I had chewed her (white) petals. But when I spat her out she was red- dead, like a dead rose.
That was when I cried a little bit, the littlest bit, for there was no escape- the white was forever red. It reminded me of my childhood. Of Alice in Wonderland who met two queens. And don't think there was escaping either, for they worked a bit like dialectic. Except that viciously pretentious word takes away almost all the charm. Like the way a chocolate biscuit makes you forget the taste of coffee for a little bit. Are you crying for me? Are you?
Of course you're not. The absurd brings tears only when it ends in a dashing finale. The best love is unrequited love; the sweetest sorrow is parting. The perverse has a beauty that the straightforward can never have.
There was a phrase I coined once. The "candid dead"... it was in a poem I once wrote... "the candid dead"...the music almost seems questioning now. An awkward but effective interrogation. Not quite harsh, but so awfully cruel. The cruelty not only of candour, but one that arises out of thwarted desire. No, not quite that.
Beauty. that's it...beauty.