With upraised breast and in the attitude of a man drawing in breath:
thus he stood there, the sublime man, and silent.
Hung with ugly truths, the booty of his hunt, and rich in torn clothes;
many thorns, too, hung on him-- but I saw no rose.
A trap of thorns beckons his touch. I hear him cry out; please don't
make me live a lie!
He writes: this is a taste I do not expect others to share; while arguing
for his taste, in dispute against those who do not share.
Taste: that is at the same time weight and scales and weighter; and woe
to all living creatures that want to live without dispute over weight
and scales and weighter!
But I am just a poet. We know too little and are bad learners: so we
have to lie.
For on this stage we are excellent players. Does he yet understand he is
playing the role of the sublime man on the stage of Zarathustra?
Perhaps I am malicious and evil?
My needling brings flak onto another whipping boy. Conveniently
forgetting that he did first attack his whipping boy, who was responding
to myself who was the one who mentioned that which he attacked his
whipping boy for as decadent, he claims to not understand the objections
his revenge brings! The dishonest coward! Not even worthy of the
role of the sublime man!
Jagged barbs of decapitated rose stems without fragrance and bloom and
unknown hope. How ugly can a sublime man get?
--
Chris Jones <[log in to unmask]>
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