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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477034" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>While The Ghosts Are Putting Make-up On Their Deathmasks In The Green Room</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">While the ghosts are putting make-up on their death masks in the green room <br>and looking for their false eyelashes like centipedes on the floor, <br>I'm out on stage apologizing for a power outage of the stars <br>that shouldn't be blamed on the windmills everybody's tilting at. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And even Mother Theresa is lining up with the mermaids <br>on the deck of the latest shipwreck to see if she can get a bunk for the night<br>without any bugs or bedsores. Crackhead, hillbilly, hippie rednecks <br>are pouring booze over the amps of the band, and the arsonist in the corner <br>who hasn't said a thing all night a lip reader could understand <br>is trying to short out his nerves to start a fire in the walls. <br>The underground circus is back in town like Cirque du Soleil in eclipse, <br>and as far as I can see, there are a lot of fire hydrants around <br>but no sacred clowns, and the audience is perched on a public trapeze <br>under a tent of starmaps that have never seen the Pleiades. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">If you just got here, Edgar Allen Poe's already had it out with the raven, <br>but nobody cares much, since it should have happened a long time ago, <br>and besides, Nevermore's not much of a door to get out of <br>in case of a fire. Go ask the thief who left the moon in the window<br>and my reflection in the mirror when everything else disappeared.<br>He'll tell you about the cat burglar who fell off the seventh floor <br>and lived to go on tour with the tale when she got crazy enough <br>to be wise, and put on a golden parachute that was the same size as her skin.<br> <br>Have you seen Rasputin? I'm looking for my bleeding heart, <br>and the last time I heard of him he was in a bag in a river <br>with a snake that was using a rooster as a fire to keep warm<br>while the toxins and the bullets took effect, though all the haemophiliacs<br>and worried assassins said when they pulled him out, he still wasn't dead.<br>Hey, you've got to give a man credit for not dying <br>when he was too innocent to float like a waterlily or an ice-berg<br>in a trial by ordeal that's more Germanic than Slavic <br>though he should have been more subtle in his approach <br>to a courtful of jesters and gleemen who hate <br>the sound of anyone's laughter in their midst but the king's and their own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And even the high priest of the Wizard of Oz <br>with his police megaphone and his taser baton agrees<br>you can't learn the protocols of mythic inflation <br>unless you're on your knees. Though I suspect <br>there's a lot less behind that than at first glance appears<br>as Cygnus swan-dives sidereally into a pool the size of a tear<br>without a safety net of shattered mirrors in the land of lakes<br>to break its Icarian descent into the shallow end of the fools <br>who are watching with their third eyes closed, <br>and lens caps on their telescopes like the blindfolds of a firing squad<br>that don't look much like the hoods of hunting falcons <br>with a bola of bells around their legs, <br>and the crescents of the moon for a trinity of talons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But by the end of the act, the ghost of Lady Nightshade comes forth <br>like a spiritual toxologist with a spiritual arrowhead in her hands<br>to make a Clovis point of flint-knapped obsidian as clearly as she can<br>by plunging it through everyone's heart like Jonestown<br>that's just run out of black cool aid to bring <br>everything down to ground zero again as the roof blows off <br>in an unexpected cyclone, and we're all left lying here<br>caught dead in our tracks like telescopes <br>and the standing targets of easels in the doe-glare<br>of the oncoming headlights of vehicles into roadkill <br>as if there were no more ripples or wavelengths in the rain<br>or tree rings anywhere in the petrified heartwood of the pain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477034" data-title="While The Ghosts Are Putting Make-up On Their Deathmasks In The Green Room de Patrick White" data-description="While the ghosts are putting make-up on their death masks in the green room 
and looking for their false eyelashes like centipedes on the floor, 
I'm out on stage apologizing for a power outage of the stars 
that shouldn't be blamed on the windmil..."></div>
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