The Telephone Game
The Telephone Game
That night, the night when Nietzsche slithered out of his throne,
Scooted nearer and squatted down right next to me.
That night, the night when we formed an elliptical circle of chairs,
(Was it Fanny Mendelssohn’s or at Rue de Berri?).
That night, the night when Nietzsche used his hand to cone the words
As he leaned over and whispered them into my ear.
That night, the night when Nietzsche’s fetid breath warmed my neck,
And his nostrils sat upon the floppy lobe
beneath my thinning hair.
That night, the night when Nietzsche’s wine-soaked,
spittle-covered tongue
Lisped between his rotted teeth and swelled around his
yellowed gums.
That night, the night when Nietzsche’s last-supped transubstantiated
wafer crumbled,
He slurred the Death of God and set me
free to mourn.
What of this secret, whispered in this circle-ish salon game—
What of this truth, passed on from lip to ear over epochs.
What of this secret, guarded in talumud, apocrypha, in altern
scriptures of man—
What of this truth brought far, both freeing from and invoking fear.
What of this secret, first over apple contemplated and making nude—
What of this truth: Yahweh and Dionysis and Apollo dead alike.
What of this secret, bound in enlightened madness, carried over
atomic wind—
What of this truth, planted on the crucifixion of man’s own son.
What of this secret, that Paul and Augustine and Kant and Maimonides
hid and sought—
What of this truth, that guided armies slaying in its name.
What of this secret, this mournful ambitious secret, this trial—
What of this truth, this hollow, hymned, and ringing truth
(Whilst Wagner in the background hummed)—
Passed on first from Christ himself,
(Or Simon Peter or John the Baptizer or Abraham?)
A secret truth rejected:
and who is left to tell
in this close-looped, unfulfilled orbit?
That night, the night when Nietzsche slithered out of his throne,
Scooted nearer and squatted down right next to me.
That night, the night when we formed an elliptical circle of chairs,
(Was it Fanny Mendelssohn’s or at Rue de Berri?).
That night, the night when Nietzsche used his hand to cone the words
As he leaned over and whispered them into my ear.
That night, the night when Nietzsche’s fetid breath warmed my neck,
And his nostrils sat upon the floppy lobe
beneath my thinning hair.
That night, the night when Nietzsche’s wine-soaked,
spittle-covered tongue
Lisped between his rotted teeth and swelled around his
yellowed gums.
That night, the night when Nietzsche’s last-supped transubstantiated
wafer crumbled,
He slurred the Death of God and set me
free to mourn.
What of this secret, whispered in this circle-ish salon game—
What of this truth, passed on from lip to ear over epochs.
What of this secret, guarded in talumud, apocrypha, in altern
scriptures of man—
What of this truth brought far, both freeing from and invoking fear.
What of this secret, first over apple contemplated and making nude—
What of this truth: Yahweh and Dionysis and Apollo dead alike.
What of this secret, bound in enlightened madness, carried over
atomic wind—
What of this truth, planted on the crucifixion of man’s own son.
What of this secret, that Paul and Augustine and Kant and Maimonides
hid and sought—
What of this truth, that guided armies slaying in its name.
What of this secret, this mournful ambitious secret, this trial—
What of this truth, this hollow, hymned, and ringing truth
(Whilst Wagner in the background hummed)—
Passed on first from Christ himself,
(Or Simon Peter or John the Baptizer or Abraham?)
A secret truth rejected:
and who is left to tell
in this close-looped, unfulfilled orbit?
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