All language is a set of symbols whose use among its speakers assumes a shared past.
In general, every country has the language it deserves. Jorge Luis Borges
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The man sees in the mirrror a great mind, himself at war and noble. He is however, and by any honest assessment, a small witted man who seems greatly at war with himself. Maybe it is the gilded chamber pots of his Saddam-esque lifestyle, or maybe it is the testosterone blocking baldness pills he snicks. Either way he has long since flushed any hope of obtaining morally sentient manhood down his own sewered mouth.
Lately, under a blood throgged moon, he has followed the tempest trail across some unseen borderline into that kind of violent madness whose cure is rarely spoken of and never judged for cost. His rage will not cover the hypocritic chasm between a life devoid of ethical service and an insatiable appetite for vain glory. He is a warrior against reason, against merit, against science and ultimately, against his own failed destiny. His foot gives name to the downtrodden and his brow sweats out primordial ooze. He has psychologically speciated into a single-mutant clade. His soul re-evolved monostomic with the heart of a puffer fish and a three forked tongue formed from the mouths of a demonic goat, a venom-less ratsnake and some terrible kind of filth eating snail.
He draws in his fetid wake a circus narcissus of moaning bombasts. He stands to them as a scab salesmen before lepers. In the smoke washed hours of darkest night he gibbers pantless into their gathered sophist void. Into the maze of metaphor he prances, doppleganged for a whiskied monkey escaped off the Barnum Train. As the new ringmaster of Arcadia’s destiny he prims to pomp in a tailed red coat worn backwards. He flourishes a chewed-brim top hat as if he is the equal to ancient Moses and his cap is kin to that othercarved ten law ruin-stone. He would compare himself to many from history had he ever read a line of it, but history will only compare him to Ibrahim the Lunatic. And who can say? Perhaps we in New Byzantium will also be saved to see our Tyrant replaced by a more competent six year old who was drawn for the task still wet from his father’s drowning pool.
Crowned as our minotaur he traverses the spiral at random and he enters the frame at impulse. Echoes of his rage turn wheels of din within the wheels of stone. Never has someone filled the sacred space so loudly. There is no hush when he strides out to the publicon. Like a cough of blackbile phlegm his entrance is not regarded hopefully by any whom hope obtains. Steel to look close and one finds eyes that are absent any strand of moral sinew. The head can provide no tension that might bind his sight to a world weary focus. When confronted by the luminance of intelligent remonstration those eyes flee the convocator and careen around like spheres of stibnite sulfur unbound from the cold lunar caustic that howls in his shouldered Alchemist jar.
As for the visage overall: There are occasional double-takes when the mask seems reluctant to endorse the freak which wears it. Fleeting scans when the entirety of that face is revealed to be a taxonless form of untentacled cephalopod. A cringe of schizophrenic terror flashes from the man and is gone. In that millisecond his entire expression is a distinctly separate organism from his polymeric body. A slithy little mouth-assed jumping creature appears to have accidentally infected a spineless host. Overall, he evokes a Thalian parasite attached to the medula of a chanterelle-brained protist dupe that came running pink-haired through the wet jungle at midnight.
Startled back to a distance those in witness see ought but a belligerent foon standing before a dispersing mass of Stockholmed hostages. His words fall over his mendicants like an umbrella of dumb that offers them shelter beneath a cool sleet of knowledge. His oratory draws the dimwitted forth much as an exploding grenade would draw Tilapia to the surface of a sewer treatment pond. Those who matriculated beyond the semester when edible crayons were taken away are perpetually dumbfounded by his inability to enjoin a single complete sentence. He offers to the couchworn masses a palliative balm of factless rancor against the old tyrannic press of literacy. To equate — as many, many scholars have — his intellect with Neanderthalism is to disclaim a terrible slander against those honorable tool bearing ancestors, whom we also vanquished.
Alas, this is no kind of moral warrior down to the later ages of his mythos. It is instead a gin flora’d cretin of pederastic concern. He blubbers through the day and through the night he fulminates froth from an unchecked weal of polysomic infantilism. His song is a near constant sputter of bleached grey noise, whistled out of a bung-mouthed pumpkin. The little hands gesticulate wildly with a mania that is generally common to those who have survived quarter and even half centuries of sybaritic consumption. The in-athletic nature of his performance overall is a new kind of dance macabre, an eruption of opiated St Vitus’ palsy thst can only be induced by chronic onanism and a steady diet of raw sweetened bonefat. Throughout history great leaders of men are celebrated as lions. This one is something else. He is a powerful but incompetent Minotaur. He navigates the maze as if becoming lost is a form of victory. And yet he will doom us by our sevens unless we brick away his portal and exile off with Ariadne any further tellers of his tale.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ibrahim_of_the_Ottoman_Empire