The Rockstar and his axe chopped through the tangles of life. Melody sunk deep within his chest. He, and only he, was the green infant. His fortune, to be given life, from the secret eternal egg. There were no echoes, warm swimming ripples of life, warm echoes rippling from his common miracle. Sometimes I think he was begat on the very bottom of the Marianas Trench eight miles below the light and air. He heard no other marvels. He traveled through a catacomb when he was older. He had an axe. Blue strings hung from it. He became schooled in the use of his weapon. He flung blue notes upon lamb ears. They came to acknowledge his songs, to make a memory. They paid him with their time, and he, taking it, issued horrendous sound. A great ‘gawk’ and ‘befurr buzz buzz’. They admired this, they suckled on it. They paid him with their memory, and he, taking it, buried it deep into his pocket, deep in the Marianas Trench, eight miles below the light and air.
Jimi The Rockstar stood there, seeming to be alone and meaningless. Seeming to have left his mind. Just existing from one moment to the next, relative in space. When he stood in lost shafts of 200 watt sunrays, being dehydrated in a shroud of fake smoke, he wailed out to the babes. They were flames burning in cushioned chairs. ‘Feed me your wisdom’ he pleaded. But they were only relative, not a conscience. They only existed from this moment to the next.
He became lost in a world where only the blind could see, where meaning was a plague of duty. He could not proceed, or be caught by hate, nor turn to suckle on the breast of fate. The pain of hate was in his eyes. Tears, glittering prisms upon his face.
Jimi The Rockstar searched for anything divine. He traveled blind throughout his universe searching for a message scribbled upon a rock, or for a deep and deadly psychotic pill that would deliver euphoric humor. He told me, ‘I saw them all, every person’s anonymous God. They’d been sitting there in a cluster, forever. Forever since man.’ He told me, ‘I’m just one flower in this field, kneeling in prayer before the bees, praying for them to procreate my soul.’ Jimi The Rockstar looked into his dream and saw a giant flower growing alone in a vacant meadow. Upon the flower sat the bee and other beasts of solid stone, like angels. He saw the stars go creeping by like a march of glowing insects. They pulsated from end to end over the rubber universe of his mind.
Jimi The Rockstar ate Life for breakfast. He was a prelude to forever; a child kissed by wind; a precious prize of secret love. He told me, ‘Desperate minds await ajar. They cling to the strangers mockery; this Rockstar is not God’. Drunken earth, clouds as crowns, the children fall amidst the rabble, these preludes to life stay down.
Wandering the street, he saw the dream people. Everyone knew where to go but him. The Spy, his eye peering out from behind his scarlet cloak, (a very green eye), selling his secrets for jail. But no one wanted his wares or his loveless smile. No place to go, between here and there, no water to splash upon his face. Jimi The Rockstar sang, ‘The spy and I, together green. He selling, I buying his profane dream.
Jimi The Rockstar had a ballad he sang to the ‘gawk’ and ‘befurr’ of the great buzz strings. ‘Spurious flames and flowers around, babes suckle on the breast of blue green sound.’ Avowed to innocence. His music dictated no compromise, no amiable sight from unseeing eyes. His deceptive trial sought no enemies nor friends, just a testimony of sound waves to unseen ends, condemning his axe to silence.
Jimi The Rockstar’s woman, his witch, was an opera fox. I spoke to him of love but he was the Rockstar and I just a dreamer. He sang his song of her, innocent and mighty. ‘a magic beauty I’ve heard it said, a wizardess comes down and snakely curls about my head, searching beneath my eyelids for my vision and my depth, the secret that will lead her to ascension’. He bowed and waved his axe then continued his song: ‘song-bird sings in the silence of morn, an infinite love has come to be born, sleep holds the beauty and magic of dawn, shadows will fade when the scarlet is gone.’ Jimi The Rockstar bounced and danced. He played his axe and sang again; ‘just love me a little and be sad when I’m gone, though miles away and far from my song, the shadows will drift from the scarlet of dawn and I will return to kiss the sleep from your eyes.’ ‘gawk, befurr, buzz buzz.’ ‘Just love me a little and be happy I’ve come, through a life time away to awakening dawn, to hold in my hands with the scarlet of morn, Innnnnn…finnnnn…iii…teee.’
Jimi The Rockstar was real. I’ve touched this friend. His truest sorrow, an unapplauded end. To me, as friend to friend, he spoke; he claimed no pity or solace stroke. ‘I did not want my song to end, but the time had come when the singing is carried on by friends or becomes an echo lost to time.’ He dropped his axe, ‘But can you see me standing in the dark of dream and shadows? Growing, ever growing, until I grow so large that I dissolve completely. And though I’ve grown so large, so large in shadow, so large to cover all, I cannot be seen, just as if I do not exist.’
It was in the end as it was in the beginning. Jimi The Rockstar escaped to his hovel against the wall, rolling and tossing, turning and moaning and dying in bed with his opera fox. There were no echoes, warm swimming ripples of life, warm echoes rippling past the depth on the very bottom of the Marianas Trench, eight miles below the light and air. He heard no marvels, there was no song, no chopping, no ‘gawk, befurr, buzz buzz.’
Who was he, the saddest man? All his sorrow, his moans and wails and sobs in loveless cries and more again. He asked me ‘What casual heart could love this wretched soul of mine and heal my sorrow, my moans and wails and more again. My victory is the saddest time.’
Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness. – Desmond Tutu