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OEDIPUS IN BONOBO LAND

 Your god spake: You wiseacre replied, made the grade, but still felt the vacancy. Later, when you managed to master more, you boneheaded, put the blame on you, alleging of having challenged the godhead.

 You plucked your own eyes out. Well done.

  Stop blaring, give up squealing, Oedipus, and enjoy yourself. Relax; we won’t harm you any more than you already did. Besides, it’s your last dream. Lie down on settee and loosen your belt and tunic. Straddle a little. You’ll feel fine. But, don’t touch. Yet.   Indeed, it’s always rousing being unable to see.

  No, it isn’t your angel from Jeus, Oed. It’s our brunette team of angels at work.  Of course they’re a bit of shaggy. Don’t be disgusted. They’re Ela, Maa, Pula and our cutie stripling Pearrie, the scrotum tightener.

  Homesick, eh? All those beloved lads of yours…and Chrysipos…of his…

  Don’t get touchy. Of course you were married to a woman. But do you have to remember, That?

  Old happy habits, old Oed. The very cornerstone of your culture. You’ve made a lifetime’s love affair out of tuition. You’ve entangled loving with philosophizing, constantly refining your sense of beauty. Your inflatus, reciprocal loving, yoked the demon of Eros, forcing him in the accessory of soul pregnancy. Nobody else has succeeded thus, ever since.

  What do you mean; you are not hearing your own voice? It’s a dream, Oedipus! It’s not Colonus here, there’s not any here at all. But still cool, isn’t it?

  Your trick of success, was to disarm and debase the stronger pole wielding the Vio- lence of beauty so imposing, that was hard to deal, so you had to fend. Um, good, eh?  Guess, who?

  You’re a hypocrite still! You are not addressing to your daughter, donsie Antigone!

   No, naughty!

  I’ll tell you! It’s the woman that you banished! Not that Her Might was too strong to harness in a task different from bodily parturition, as you contended. It was the weaponry of affection neutralizing your rage. Now you rage for being deprived of the love you shunned! It was only Diotima speaking in the name both of wisdom and the goddesses! And recall, you had been at their grove before you drowsed off. 

  You guessed right, I’m a woman myself. But not of your kind. And I fear not your wrathful gods! And for your knowledge, they’re but sheer usurpers. Your whole Olympus has been occupied by a gang of malevolent, wanton, debased demi-gods!

  I don’t give a shit about your oracle! This is Bonobo land!

  Your total civilization relies on partition, separation, desperation! Twisted throng of perverted Throne.

  We’re not regarded even as barbarians. We think of you and your civilization as ailment. We seldom even think.

  Death is but a pro-longed sleep in mother’s bust.

  Don’t worry about your sons; they’ll successfully slaughter each other. You’ve got a little time left before getting perpetually enwrapped in this dream. Find the roots of evil, Oedipus!                

  Our little bacchanal won’t tear anybody apart, splinter or spit, like the alleged chop-up of Pentheus. What a scurrilous calumny for the fear of reviving Dionysus. Poor Agave!   

  Of course, your gods are going to make a hero out of you, Oedipus! Because revealing the conspicuous, you managed to screen their most hideous, deepest hidden secret, being simultaneously the worst victim and the best accomplice!

  Now, if Hölderlin is right, you must still have one eye left. Perhaps the Spirit is still occluded inside the Egyptian rock, the one you, once upon a time, accused of being half- animal and an infant, unable to speak the true language of Logos. You must return. The signs are there. You, yourself have been there, but never whole. Get back to Sais, raise the veil of Neith, as Novalis suggested. Don’t play victim to us of tragic triumph over human destiny. Know thyself means bullshit, there’s but shallow truth under the low constellation of these shady suns and gloomy gods. Like your ego’s touch, you’ve noticed milk’s skin, but missed the churn.  Of course you’ve been the Patriarch of Last Lost Loser philosophers. Your guilt became your gilt, but also a constant stain on your progeny. You should be more ashamed than swagger of it. You’ve been a molesting zombie for thousands of years. You called forth your intelligence to invent the longest way to happiness, until finally you lost the way.

  The tragedy was not personally yours; just followed up your blood-handed gods.

  You’ve got time, for time will be repeating over you. 

  You almost made.

   I’m not another night-mare, I’m rather your night-apess, the apex before the downfall.

  You feel the ancient goddess of me. Of course there are not words to wreak the event; you’ve been totally mute, have you forgotten, Oedy?

  So, you really think, I’ve spoken in words?

  It’s inextricable, oh, old boy, primary desire and dreaming; you whack off, reify, petrify, reign on relics. What’s left is a wash of wrath, vengeance under the veil of justice, prevail of no avail, for all your debacle.

  Don’t rush; let your good gods wait.

  Now stoop. Now I’ll lean over your loitering loins and my tongue will make all of you out; on the other side. Awaiting.  

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