DRESS REHEARSALIt’s become the temple for a new creed –
installed on a reconverted night-club
built up on an abandoned mosque
erected on the ruins of an abbey
restored by the Church of England
on a former Catholic shrine
once constructed on the grounds
where men traced the journeys of the sun with stones.They trace the journeys of the moon.
Rumours have it that they invoke death,
that they indulge in murder,
that they host group suicides.
The tabloids claim that they are evil,
that they sin with children,
that they enjoy life.
Serious analysts maintain that they do not exist,
that it’s all media frenzy, superstitious bluff.The trick is
that they only meet in winter
when the nights are long
and the temple is dark.Even if you see them
in the light of day,
you won’t see them together.They are all alone.
But they all know
Marie Antoinette.Marie Antoinette leads the procession.
Marie Antoinette
is a man with a moustache
who likes wearing wigs
and heavy make up
with Rococo flair.
He calls his fake breasts Versailles,
carries budgies in his hairdos,
has a collection of corsets,
and wired frocks.Marie Antoinette
leads the parade,
with deep priestly voice.
The founder of a new creed.Behind Marie Antoinette:
the eunuchs and the menstruating virgins.
They head to the altar to encounter
the deliverer of email,
the announcer of their mission.On the sides, rows of TV monitors
show vociferous multitudes
clapping and cheering
the procession.Tinseled midgets throw confetti.
Glitter balls hang from the ceiling.
Bleeding socks on broken glasses,
torn toe nails, pink leather, gauze,
spread on the floor.Smells of incense, makeup and poppers.
Rolls and rolls of faxed complaints
and invitations to talk shows
are swept away
by long haired men
in black tight trousers.
Their face make up whiter
than Marie Antoinette’s.Instead of curtains
streams of vomit flank the sides of the aisle
from the mouths of faint young men
who are releasing their stomachs,
from above the gothic arches.
Some have necrosis sarcoma,
some are just recovering
from a hang over.
Weak as fetid water.
They lean against the banister.
Insolent.Red stains round the crotch area
on their white tunics,
the bleeding virgins exude
smell of paint.
Fake blood or intense lipstick?
Vanity?The naked eunuchs push
in their wheelchairs
disabled body builders
dressed as gladiators.The tracks of blood
dripping on the floor
mark the cue to the attendees:
refugees,
detainees,
parolees,
amputees,
devotees,
retirees,
resignees,
returnees,
the sexually minor
and the racially ambiguous.They’re soon overtaken
by foreign bon vivants,
and armless women
on roller skates.
They ally with those
in possession of crutches
and micro-scooters.Before they reach the altar
a digression:
|
the drive of your
life
reassuringly expensive
because you're worth
it
change your scenery
we keep our promises
nobody does chicken
like us
there's Latin spirit in everyone |
The camera zooms into the jewels adorning the crown, which is being placed carefully on Her Majesty’s head. The scene cuts to a panning over the assembly: the Ambassadors, the Bishops, the Judges, the Heralds, the Gentlemen of Arms; the Lords in their red cloaks and white collars and the Commons standing in their plain suits. The broadcast returns to the throne, where the Prince of Edinburgh is handing a pair of spectacles to his consort. She dons them graciously. The Earl Marshall gives her a bunch of folios with a reverential gesture. The Queen starts her speech: “My Lords and Members of the House of Commons: My Government continues to attach the highest importance to the modernisation and improvement of our democratic system. My Government will ensure the continued economical and political stability of this nation, which once held such a crucial position in a larger United Kingdom. My Government has already secured a number of changes to further this end. It has established that my role in the progress of this nation is redundant. England is now a Republic. I am no longer your Queen. My Lords and Members of the House of Commons, I pray that the blessings of Almighty God may rest upon your council”. The Lord Great Chamberlain raises his wand. All stand up and the trumpeters play their fanfare. The Earl Marshall kneels down and takes the speech papers from the Queen, who stands in front of him. The Lord Great Chamberlain removes her spectacles while the Earl Marshall takes the crown off her head. The young Pages are asked to release her purple cape and carry it with them out of the room. The Lord Great Chamberlain and the Earl Marshall remove her medals and her necklace and rip off her satin dress until she is left in her underwear. Respectfully, they proceed to take off her corset, her bra and her knickers. The broadcasters alter the live pictures to conceal, with blurred pixels, her intimate parts. Naked, the Queen walks along the corridor in her journey back to the Royal Gallery. In front of her, the Lord Great Chamberlain and the Earl Marshall walk backwards avoiding eye contact with her private parts. The BBC commentator speaks with a trembling voice. Almost in tears, he notes: “Nobody does these things like us”. |
The altarpieceEND OF DIGRESSION
is a giant TV screen
where viruses spread
microscopic.
By virtue of digital manipulation
the viruses fade
and become arrogant
forceful
short-tailed
sperms
fighting to enter an egg.
The birth giving scenes
precede cunnilingus.Fade to live action.
Almost obstructing the sight
of the screen,
a naked man hangs
from the walls of the dome,
suspended by hooks
piercing his flesh
at the end of long chains.
His tattoos distorted.
Sacrificial.Below the sacrifice,
lipstick lesbians
dressed as nuns
dust ancient statues:
soldiers and athletes of marble,
perfectly muscled,
but missing their penises,
their scrota hanging
from thoroughly chiseled
pubic hair.The slick nuns
line up the warriors of stone
in erratic arrangements
amidst the performers:
the practitioners of genital origami,
the fetish Morris dancers,
and the naked poets.The dwarfs are selling tickets for the raffle.
Two hundred and fifty one manics,
gesticulating geometrically,
are sprinkling on the crowd
the tears collected
from twenty one thousand depressives.The dancers are dancing a waltz
with the live broadcast
of their dancing selves.The monitors keep witnessing the audience.
Second digression:
| It’s hot and Marie Antoinette is sweating. He has an itchy unwashed five-day stubble. His white shirt and khaki trousers creased and dirty. He is kneeling barefoot on the wooden floor, his hands tied up behind his back. He can feel the blisters on his wrists. He is thirsty, but he doesn’t dare to ask for water again. The shed is lit only by a thin beam of sunlight, falling through a gap in the roof, behind the warder. Still, he can distinguish the stultified, expressionless face of this man. Marie Antoinette is terrified. But he doesn’t know what he fears more: the hiss of the snakes that he can hear crawling under the rotten floorboard or the fickle temper of the gunman. His warder has been aiming his gun steadily at Marie Antoinette’s face for hours. A firm hand and an imperturbably blank expression. In spite of his fears, Marie Antoinette pities the gunman. He wonders whether he realises what a silly puppet he is. He’s sure that this man, in his smug brutality, cannot comprehend the superior ideals that have lead Marie Antoinette to these far lands. What a petty and grim life he must live, oblivious to so many of the pleasures and achievements of the Western world. What can this mercenary know of the power of information, the joys of the banal or the delights of sadomasochism? All of a sudden, Marie Antoinette is blinded by a burst of sunlight as the door is opened from the outside by one of the officers. When his eyesight adjusts to the light, he realises that this is the vicious one, the officer with the sarcastic, condescending smile. The clever one. Marie Antoinette trembles. The warder and the officer speak, quickly, in a mixture of Portuguese and Spanish. Marie Antoinette makes an effort to appear inattentive. He pretends not to understand either language, even if he can actually pick out most of the words spoken. However, the conversation is not making any sense. They’re playing games with him. Again. The officer shouts at him and punches his face. “Sorry to spoil your make up”, he adds in English, laughing. He reaches for Marie Antoinette’s throat and grips it while, with his other hand, he pulls at his hair forcefully. “You know what we want from you. Things will be easier if you collaborate…”. But Marie Antoinette is one of most committed Children of the White Bereavement. And he won’t talk. |
¡no me toques
los cojones!
pásame la pipa,
buey
que no es broma ¡cabrón!
¡te vas a joder!
¡toma! por pendejo |
The paradeEND OF DIGRESSION
is greeted at the altar
by a glamorous lady,
a well rounded priestess,
a drag queen trapped
in the body of a lesbian.She hands a piece of paper
to Marie Antoinette.
They almost kiss
cheek to cheek.
The giant screen behind them
loses signal.
The lights are dimming in the place.The lesbian speaks:
“In the beginning ghosts haunted
the hollow windows of this gothic palace.
Before we arrived
skeletons climbed up
the ivy on the walls,
but as soon as they reached the windows
and showed up their skulls
they fainted and fell
bone by bone.
Specters trod on sterile flowers
catching rotten butterflies.
And the lovers insulted each other
with ugly grimaces
from cypress to cypress.
They grieved in black and white.
Like the character who used to sit outside
soaking his cape in the pond
staring, red-eyed, bald and pale,
at the passers-by.
They all wasted their beauty.”The priestess pauses,
makes a sign.
A young girl approaches her,
holding a gigantic mirror.
The priestess fixes her mascara.The proceedings
are interrupted by the
“Jingle Bells” ring
of a mobile.The lesbian picks up the phone.
She listens attentive,
makes a gesture to Marie Antoinette.
She proclaims:
“They’re here!”All doors and windows are opened.
The sounds change dramatically.They enter. Stampede.
They all dress in black.
Black sunshades.
Black ear pieces.
Black suit cases.
They’re followed by squeaky wheeled beds,
heart monitoring devices,
containers resembling fish tanks
with lots of buttons and flashing lights.The draw begins.
The crowds are roaring,
purple tickets in their hands.“Two fat ladies, 88”.
A right arm for a deaf actor.“53 is the next price:
it’s an orthopedic smile”“Four hundred and thirty six”.
A wet tongue for a hunchback.“Who’s got ticket one-o-five?
You’ve won a designer vulva”.“Kwak, kwak, two ducks”.
22 is a rubber mind.Three three three, eight, nineteen,
twenty seven, thirteen, five,
one hundred and ninety seven…The raffle goes on ‘till dawn.
Ernesto Sarezale, 2000-2004
www.sarezale.com
sarezale(at)yahoo.com