The best lack all conviction
and the worst are filled with a passionate intensity.
W.B.Yeats.
When you don't have this dying and becoming,
you are only a sad guest on this Earth.
Goethe.
There's a man. Goes by the name of Phil. Some say he's their Saviour. Some say he's Satan. Allow me to influence your opinion. Should need be.
Down in Eden trashed, there be two tribes:
-The Blessed, who know that to be of The Blessed is a blessing, but also know that with every blessing comes a curse.
-The Mongers, who are that curse.
Phil's got what The Blessed want.
What Phil's got is a way out. An exeunt.
From the sickness of civilisation.
The sickness of civilisation.
It's what The Mongers are dealing in.
The Mongers. Who deal in all that is ugly.
Who deal in all that is shameful.
All that is shameful.
Shameful. It's what The Mongers are dealing in.
Phil's way out is a gastronomical quietus. Nothing crass or gross like provoking death by boulemia or poisoning. A quietus is an elegant departure from this mortal coil. Phil describes his dishes as elegant - art you can eat, with each delicate and delicious morsel tasting like nothing you ever lathered your corrupted palate with. A gourmet ambrosia. An epicurean extravaganza. From which The Blessed die.
At Phil's place, Happy Hour is every hour.
§
In their daily broadcast, The Mongers' spokesperson said that war was the only way to ensure peace.
§
Phil's. The joint is the terrestrial terminus for those who want out. Dissidents. Heretics. Renegades. Iconoclasts. The enlightened. The Blessed. Who know this to be true:
Everything is getting worse
MEAN t i m e
(and it is)
The Mongers deal in all that is shameful
And bask in impunity.
En route to Phil's, The Blessed chant a mantra. An aphorism from the quill of Isaac Newton: "All systems tend towards dysfunction."
Sometimes, interference from The Monger's surveillance antennae scramble the words: tend all dysfunction towards systems. Towards systems all dysfunction tend. Etcetera. No matter. Message received, loud and clear.
§
In their daily broadcast, The Mongers' spokesperson said that because CCTV installations are being increased, it does not mean we should feel afraid.
§
Phil's place ain't no palatial pile. Phil doesn't so much eschew gloss, he eschews it. Phil's place is a hole-in-the-wall. Behind the hole-in-the-wall there are ruins lit by candles and bonfires.
Ambience in the ruins is distressed magisterial, tenebrous Maxfield Parrish pastel hues dusted with particles of gold leaf floating in the silvery incandescence of limelight.
Faded graffiti on a crumbling stone wall is by William Blake.
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon England's mountains green
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land.
§
In their daily broadcast, The Mongers' spokesperson said that The Second Coming was imminent, and that we should kneel before our televisions to offer prayers of thanks.
§
Above the hole-in-the-wall, there's a neon sign:
Phil's
So when The Blessed arrive they can holler atphuckinglast.
Whilst Phil's busy washing Cretan spinach, carving Perigord duck or melting Viennese chocolate in a bain-Marie, tremors from bombs in The Mongers' wars often cause the letters P, h, and the apostrophe of the neon sign to flicker and go out. Then the sign reads ils. As in ills. Sign of the times.
Phil's sharpening his cook's knife. I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
Phil always goes barefoot. Occasionally dances a little jig. A jig. Of unadulterated ebullience. And did those feet in ancient time...
§
In their daily broadcast, The Mongers' spokesperson said that our soldiers died noble deaths in the name of freedom.
§
