Language is a painted whore who comes in many guises. She can lift you to new heights of pleasure with one breath, and with the next she can cut your throat. Her words are tiny demons tap dancing across a broken field, their sunny smiles shrouds hiding the rot that decays from within. Words make sweet the stench of decaying corpses with the perfume of platitudes that render death palatable.
Language is in a state of perpetual tension with reality as it struggles to drape a linear mantle across a reality that that is one nonlinear paradox after another.
The words that fall from the mouths of pundits spin intricate webs of deception and distraction like the magician’s sleight of hand as he diverts attention away from the sham that is the heart and soul of his trick.
“Our banking system is sound”
“The Surge is working.”
“Change you can believe in.”
“The American Dream”
The words point away from what they aren’t like tiny pods carrying within them the seeds of their own contradictions. Their vapid abstractions are tiny puffs of mist that dissipate before deaths foul breeze, only to be replaced by other puffs that float briefly before fading.
They spread their toxic dew over all that is living, sparkling in the sunlight as that which once lived is blistered and burned until it reduced to a sea of asphalt spreading as far as the eye can see like an amber field of grain gone bad.
As a sage once said,
Language, Big Guy, is the ultimate turn-on.
All I know is what the words know, and that makes a tidy little sum, with a
begining, a midle and an end, like a well-turned phrase or the long sonata of
Samuel Becket, Malloy