Father John Misty
possessed by the spirit of Elliott Smith
Preaches like a holiday reverend
Over rhodes piano riffs and Figure 8s
falling sideways like lamniscate jokes
And hamlet references that fly over
The heads of serial killers and tennis players
Watching the footnotes and recording their dreams
While watching nothing happen in real time
And everything else happening
In a short foreign film about a boy
And his balloons
And darkness creeps in around the
Frame of his lilting
While he bareknuckle boxes
And Pitch shifting chaos
Where the bag crumbles
Under dramatic swells
One day, I want to see through Scott Walker’s eyes. I want to peel back through a collection of vinyl – larger than the current neatly arrayed martial blocks – and take out Scott 3.
I want to look into the eye of ’67, and see myself as that man existing the pupil; able to withstand the perpetual contractions of existence that mar its utter perfection. I want to fall into that eye, into the disturbing rainy-day dreams and post-apocalyptic nightmares that turned the Beach Boys Stockhausen.
One day, I want to fall through black and end up on the other side the same person, yet unutterably different. I want the undulations that occur right at the rim of sclera and iris, an iridescent storm, reveal itself to me like Cronus, sitting on the rings of saturn; sickle in hand to announce that things never change. I want to see the storm of purple lightning that only exist microscopically. I want the hallways to change timbre, and the music to change direction.
One day, I want to ride the black river of darkness that attends ourobouros; feel the nothing sensation of purity wash over my light-filled veins and make no attempt to crush my existence in its palm. I want to ride those oily scales like fractals that hallucinate to the sound of baritone despair.
One day, in the pit of blackness, I want to hear the crush of a corpse being slammed with a fist and remember that I was once a person; the vibrations of pounding and susurration leaving droplets to reform in perpetual states of torture and sorrow.
But, of all things, I want to see the world through the eyes of infinity, where logic means nothing. And when I do, I will be able to see through Scott Walker’s eyes, and find truth, but no salvation.