Sing to me, O Goddess, of Achilles' hair
that he cut every morning with a
old and broken razor, and for
the pain he pissed himself!
With the face full of band-aids he
went to the King all furious to
ask for a day of rest.
But Agamemnon, who had his
own worries, didn't care much about the
Myrmidons...
"Achilles!", he says, "damn you,
do you want to get the hell out of here?"
The gloss glosses over the soft lemma like the dull skerry commentary.
"Hermetic obsolescence of aedus, different speakers, where obscure words remain so in the worrying disuse of sacred by the reference speaking group that settles into the modern through the current language".
The phantom bard of Chios confirms the sought oblivion, the conscious solitude, the animic self-exile, not abandoning rites and customs now invisible, surrendering to the psychic logos of the lost archetype where there is no punishment being now "he who does not see" absent masterpiece, rhapsodist of himself. Building temples and wonders of glory and waiting millennia of decay where the erosion of hidden consciousness corrodes the shabby altars erected thus to reach true triumphs, close to the ruins.
The mausoleum of the hero's physical courage shatters in front of the chains of the will to power and we, stripped of truth, recoil in horror at finding ourselves rooted concubines with our vices, jealous even of ourselves. Materializing self-destruction in the greed for everything is the result of the thirst for revenge where defending honor, no matter the cost, makes everyone sink into putrefaction.
The inexhaustible laughter of infinity's echo marks the static dream of human misfortunes. The anvil floats in the trough of liquid mercury. Flattery, anger, cruelty, ruthlessness, create seduction in invulnerability from the boredom of Paradise. But the dishes of the feast, which one would want materially endless, are spoilt, where ambrosia is a devastating dream of necrophilic allergies.
The anthropomorphism we attach to everything around us is a sick nightmare without awakening, like Hector's body, defaced by the "son of Peleus". The wrath of the blond haired Achaean's astragalus is resistant to osteoporosis.
Finally, justice applied to human flesh is necrosis where the amputation of the Divine arrives inevitably. Alas, still today, we have esteem for our misdeeds, shame takes its time to arrive. In the ass it enters, in the head not, damn Troy. Post mortem raped the beauty of eternity, Penthesilea knows something about it. Then there's the Heart, what a long road.
PATROCLUS! Run swift-footed Achilles, run... Epic pederasty, love is blind, Homer "saw"...
"No reward awaits the hero in the afterlife".
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