Bosco's profile

We are all lost, drugged Gods, bellowing and creating like enraged bulls, like all animals thwarted. You formulate and compile, goods in, carriage out, services rendered, to stay in the black with a dead God. There is no more heresy. Just desire and imagination swirling in the void. For when God, in the form of a snake, offered Eve the ripe apple, It was the devil who jumped from the bushes to cry shame.

They nailed him to a frame, and stretched his parchment skin, as they painted on his pain. The man who died for art, now hangs in marble halls, content, serene, established.

The dry breeze that wends from the sandstone pages, Ink the flavour of figs and honeyed almonds, Vast dunes of prophesy and instruction. I have begun to doubt the existence of Richard Dawkins, In this warm eternal desert myth. Blood, Sword, Horse, Paradise. Far from the florescent light of reason, A flame dances in darkness, Coffee is brewed on a skillet, Far-fetched stories are exchanged, A warm fist of men about a fire, Backs turned to the void. Islam, Islam, Islam, Il hamdu lilah. Il hamdu...

Somewhere deep in the bowels Of the here and now, Begins a savage stirring: "James Joyce is dead, And we are alive." Learnéd scholars, pouring over The carrion of text, Glibly reply: "Then death is more like life, And life is dull and deathly pale." They hold a conference titled "Ulysses and Globalisation" or, "Dubliners and The Celtic Tiger." But the rumbles do not cease Instead they become seismic tremors. Professors smile nervously to each other As if to say: "Oh how my imagination plays t...