Beyond the Pale

Well you're in for it now...

The last couple of weeks have been pretty full, what with uni and heavy doses of procrastination - all the good stuff.

Sometimes this isn't so bad, procrastination by definition is doing something other than what you're supposed to be doing - and so at times not working on the essay that I'm supposed to be working on can lead to me writing something that turns out to be a half decent attempt at a story instead.

Thankfully that's how it's been working over the last few weeks - I kept putting off working on History and Human Rights pieces so that I could jump into working on the bits of the assignment that I have just handed in - the mid-semester assessment for my Poetry unit - which (now that I've finished) I thought I might put up here.

As I’m reasonably sure that most of my readership (you guys are still reading right? Comments!) doesn't actually read a lot of poetry I'm not sure what you'll think or what you'll say seeing that poetry criticism can be a messy affair at the best of times: One of the pieces - that I may or may not put up - is a response to 'as a wife has a cow' by Gertrude Stein, which (aside from the rather ridiculous name) could either be described as an interesting exploration of language or as the nonsensical blathering of a mad woman (you can make up your own mind).

The piece that I'm going to put up today however isn't that much of a leap from what I normally do - as it was written as a response to 'Les Chants de Maldoror' which is a prose poem (the line between prose and poetry is rather shaky) which was written by Isidore Lucien Ducasse under the pseudonym - Comte de Lautreamont’s. I haven't had much luck in finding it on the internet (at least not in English) but it can best be described as a study of evil, via the titular character 'Maldoror', who is portrayed as just a little bit of a prick (you really do have to read it to get the idea).

That is not to say that Lautréamont was a nasty bastard himself as he was supposedly writing a companion piece to Maldoror (a study of good this time) at the time of his death (at the age of 24)So this is probably those occasions where it is best not to make any assumptions about the authors characteristics based solely on what he has written (and that goes for me as well).

Anyway that is definitely enough prattle - so here we go:


The Executioner


Their questions are all the same. All made in that plaintive voice of those who know their time is up: “How can you do this? What gives you the right?” Each time I sadly smile and say simply, “Because I can.” They do not understand. Some will yell and shout, pulling at the bars. Others will simply sit and weep, pushed over by their fear. Still others, though fewer in number, will let their eyes go cold. Will spit and sneer and make sullen accusation. “You are a tool” they say: “A dog that does his masters bidding, a coward too afraid to show his face.” I weather their onslaughts with stoic pose. They do not understand and so I must explain. “I am no tool, for there is no authority greater than mine.”Some are given courage by this; their faces turn to smirks and they spit dismissal. “You do the work of the wealthy” they say. I tell them that I do not take money for my work, that more often than not it is the wealthy that end up here. They say: “Then you serve the King, you serve his ‘law.” I tell them that I have outlasted both before. At this they grow angry and sulk like a petulant child. “Then you will be judged by god.” I flash white teeth. “God plays no part in my work. I do what he will not. What he cannot bring himself to do.” At this they wail, cry and stamp. Fear finally mingles with them in the dark and the buck and heave as if they were a horse trying to throw off a rider that has taken too much of a liking to his spurs.



On the night before they will not sleep, but will turn to begging, to prayer: Both will go unanswered.
In the morning I will unlock their cell and pull them out and march them to the gate; their eyes distant, their countenance cowed; weighed down by knowing. Some forget to blink in the light. Most ignore the jeering crowd that flaps around them, swooping and squawking and screeching for blood. They only come alive again when they see it perched upon the hill: The great machine. The child of some giant’s chair and an infernal mousetrap made man-sized and sharp. It seems to quiver with an energy barely contained. They grow skittish, eyes darting for a place to hide, an avenue of escape: knowing full well that there is none. I strap them in, face down. Their eyes grow dull. The crowd jeers. From this point on there can be no intervention either by luck or chance. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty! There is a ‘thunk’, a spray of mist upon my mask. The crowd reaches its crescendo.

Soon some official will arrive: To talk of justice. Of how humane a quick death is. At that the executioner will slip away. Already forgotten, he is a part of the machine, a faceless cog, even though it is he who pulls the leaver; who makes it work. The world changes, but he remains. There is talk of democracy: of equal rights. The king knows fear; and so lashes out at all around. Nobles and commoners, the rich and the poor, all are equal under the sweep of the scythe. The people cry out at such abuse. At the horror of a machine that decides the fate of man. They pray to their god. He remains silent, though his servants make hollow threats of hellfire and excommunication.
The king sends churchmen to the executioner. They ask him to pray for them and then break down when he will not. Cursing and crying like common men. Outside the cells he stays hidden in the shadow of the great machine.

Then comes a time when all the fear can no longer be contained. It breaks loose and washed out into the streets as blood and flame. Revolution comes. The people march on the king and drag him from his throne. Their teeth gnash with talk of justice and of all being equal under law. They forget the cries they raised against the great machine and instead ask it now to become their impartial judge, the dispenser of their will. They bring the king out. Beaten and dirty but still crowned. They march him to the great machine. The executioner stands ready; winds back the blade. The king is full of gnawing horror as he stares into the abyss. The crows all come to see. Shrieking and tearing at their clothes in anticipation. They strap the king in and he cries like a common man. Last prayers. Last words. I pull the leaver sharp. The blade slithers through the air. Such swiftness! Such beauty!
The ‘thunk’ and spray are greeted by a new rattle as the crown rolls off and into the crowd. They grab it and raise it high: An idol to their work. As men talk and puff and preen I slip away. They think I serve their use, but in truth do they serve mine. I whisper to the dark: “After all, there is no authority greater than mine.”


Alright, so that's it for the moment

It felt alright to me once I was done with it - although I'm not entirely happy with some of the metaphors and some of the symbolism (I may be describing I little too much rather than evoking). But it's not my opinion thatI'm interested in - so tell me what you think!

M