On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (9 page)

And soon they are a-preaching

And banging fists on doors for to complain

“But what they really crave

Is far too dangerous to know -

They've given up, and always look the other way

“For the most devastating Silence is of words left unspoken

Of fantasies hounded by shame -

For they wither the Soul ‘till the Spirit is broken

Or explode into ugly disdain

“Sure, Truth is Beauty, and Beauty is Truth

But so is Violence, Corruption and Fear

So make sure you look up when you're walking on water

But look down when you're crossing the mire

“Every man, every woman and child is born

With a Vision that is waiting to sing

But for most it is easier to simply deny

There is anything burning within

“For to sing would bring Confusion, and Confusion courts Despair

And so the scaffolding around them tumbles down

And so for fear of being left up in the air, their eyes are closed

And their mouths will ne'er conceive a melodious sound

“I look into Your cities' sallow eyes in search of light

And certainly activity bewilders –

I see a veritable hive of imperfections, masturbations

Titillations, and distractions to consider

“So I seek beneath the glamour and monotonous clamour

For the heretics, the martyrs, the condemned

And I call upon the glorious hole-builders of old

Those champions on whom I could always depend

“But nobody answers, nobody comes forth

No, not one whisper of a creeping revelation

Not the slightest stink of chaos, nor the briefest glimpse of Love

Beyond the usual smug self-satisfaction

“Oh, where are the true Saints and the true Sinners?

Your visions have become more tedious than Your crimes

And whilst You measure Your reflection in the mirror of Deception

Every one of You betrays the next in line

“So if you are truly searching for an honest soul

Waste not your idle time splitting day from night

It is right here among the Damned that will you find that steady hand

For only in the Darkness shines the Light

“Only the chained Soul cries out for freedom

Only the muddied heart looks up toward the sky above

And there is not one living Soul among your many brethren

That is not Damned by his own hand for want of Love

“For that is why I made Amanda Palmer

Why I chose to come among you in her form

For the spirit of a singer can reach deep into the heart

Of every coward and deceiver ever born

“Oh yes, Music is the king of all emotions

It rules them with a firm and steady hand

Demanding silence of the ego's bold commotions

It stills the rampant miseries of the Damned

“And what better way to wreak my merry havoc

Than to fill Your wanton worn out Spirits with desire

For a voice that reaches forth with such exquisite sexual drama

And a beauteous form, richly wrought from sexual fire

“Yes that is why I made Amanda Palmer

To light up the flame of hope within your dreams

For without it You become as tedious as the Bible can seem long

When it is lit, You entertain with some adequacy

“Oh yes, that is why I made Amanda Palmer

For to remind You what it is to be alive

For it is hope defines despair, and success longs for disaster

And in those vices my idle fingers thrive”

And with those words she vanished in an instant

And I was back among the gardens with my friends

And though the perfumes smelt so sweet

And the fellowship seemed complete

I was alone, for Innocence had found its End!

 

By
XXXXX XXX

Well, where do I begin? For a start this poem doesn't really fit any of the pre-requisites for a
palmeresque
and yet I found it both fascinating and perplexing in equal measure, and on so many levels, not all of them good. To my mind it is clearly attempting to take on the tradition of the metaphysical poets of old. I see the shades of Coleridge, Blake, Donne, Milton, all looming over it and most probably looking down disapprovingly. Don't get me wrong, this is not a great poem by any means, but it certainly tries, occasionally almost gets there, then comes out with a line so clumsy and naive that these aspirations are quickly forgotten. Indeed I occasionally found myself laughing out loud, a rare event indeed, particularly when judging literary competitions.

Let me start with the presentation of Amanda Palmer herself. By casting her as a literal face of the Devil the author has effectively deified her, remaking in the guise of a magical being. This is perhaps not so surprising given the fan based nature of the origins of the Palmeresque. But then, as the story (if that is the right word) unfolds the magic is somewhat tarnished by her general sense of dissatisfaction. (I imagine that is why she felt the need to return to our realm and report on the problem, as this is not revealed in the text.) Towards the end the Devil explains that she made herself into Amanda Palmer basically to stir things up a little as she was bored. Not a glorious spiritual conclusion really. Thus on the narrative level this poem therefore fails, but it does retain some dignity through its commitment to its argument.

As for the psycho-spiritual debate that forms the main body of the text, well it is hard to know whether it reveals a complex many angled psychological argument, or a series of simplistic and
contradictory truisms, most likely the latter. Certainly there are some stanzas that are rich in pretentions of beauty and profundity, some even feel quotable, and yet the overall argument is more than a little incoherent, and inconclusive. If I had any faith that this was in fact the author's intention, that being to imply the complex and contradictory nature of the human psyche as understood today, then I would take off my hat and introduce the world to a fine new poet, but alas, I have no such faith, and suspect that this is merely the product of “woolly thinking”. It is, however, these many contradictions that both fascinate and perplex me. I simply don't quite understand what the author is trying to do, and suspect that he (I am fairly certain it was written by a man) doesn't either.

Nonetheless it is certainly not without talent, technique and ability, not to mention a distinct flair for words. I particular enjoyed the mixing of old formal English with more modern terms.

Generally I have a fundamental problem with most modern poetry; indeed I have in my time been called reactionary. But I find that almost every example I read is toying with nothing more than the mundane details of modern middle class ennui. Of course there are exceptions, but where are the big issues? Where is the search for the eternal? Where is the responsibility of the artist to delve deeper than his fellow man (woman)? And also, I have issues with the discarding of form. It seems to me that much modern poetry is really prose unnaturally divided up into lines, with no more sense of rhythm than a traffic jam. What strikes me most about this text is that it attempts all these things: the discipline of regular rhythm and rhyme; the search for the eternal; delving into the big issues. And though it frequently fails at everything it strives towards, every box is at least ticked.

I therefore must wholeheartedly applaud the intentions of the author, whilst sighing woefully (and occasionally laughing uproariously) at the obvious failings of the text itself. I only hope he/she learns to focus his/her thoughts more coherently in future works.

 

TEXT NUMBER FOUR

It is a widely held notion that at the moment of death one's whole life flashes before one, and indeed that is almost always the case. So as Amanda Palmer lay dying she was surprised to find someone else's life flashing before her. Or rather she would have been surprised had she had the consciousness to question it. As it was she just lay there, drifting upon the dreamlike images that passed through her mind, images that seemed strangely unfamiliar, and yet somehow comforting. In the distance she could hear herself gasping for air, feel the blood leaving her body, taking with it what little strength remained, but all that seemed like a memory now, of little concern. She had no idea how this had happened. Nor did it seem to matter: this was the first time she had died, and she was keen to see what the experience had to offer. Even in this situation she considered herself an Artist, and is it not an artist's job to explore the extremities of experience? If she was to die, then she would do it properly. In life she had always prided herself on her courage to leap into the abyss, and there was no reason to feel differently now. This was just another challenge. To cling to life when the ultimate culmination of experience lay within her grasp would be a betrayal of everything she had claimed to be, everything she had dreamt she was. Certainly she had had her moments of doubt. There had been times, many times, when the fear of finding she was ordinary had
eaten away at her confidence, made her question if she had it in her. But this was her chance, her final and most glorious chance to prove herself, to be the bold explorer, to map the very borders of existence, and she was determined not to find herself wanting.

But none of that explained the life that seemed to be flashing before her, which was definitely not hers, not that she recognised anyway, and that was the puzzle. “Well that's a bit fucking weird,” she thought, wrestling what remained of her consciousness from the corporeal remains below. Was it below? Already she realised she was making assumptions. Open-mindedness. In situations like this that was the key. No assumptions, no rushed explanations, just sit back and enjoy the ride—she didn't really mean that last bit but felt the need to state it to herself regardless. Why did she do that? She always did that. She had after all considered “Miss Placed Bravura” as a potential stage name some years earlier. No, come on girl, focus on what's happening. This is a one-time shot. And with not inconsiderable effort she slowly managed to bring the vision into clearer focus. Whoever's life it was she was seeing, or rather visiting, for that was closer to how it felt, they were by now considerably older than her, and seemed to have given themselves over to the domestic simplicities of motherhood. “How fucking tedious was that!” she thought, as the envisioned life drew towards it's close until suddenly it blinked into nothing leaving her with a slightly uncomfortable feeling of grand-maternal love and domestic self-satisfaction, which she tried to form into words, to expel them aloud from her gut, but all that came out was a long and garbled “
fuuuuuccck!!!
”

Okay, so this was nothing, nothingness, she got that. What now. Isn't she supposed to flicker out of existence, or move on to a higher plane or something? And hey, what about the white light? Shouldn't there be a white light? . . . The nothing continued being nothing. If she was to be entirely honest, and really there was little point in anything else at this stage, she would have to admit that this “nothing” business was beginning to freak her out a little. Indeed the notion of eternal nothingness was becoming ever-more
feasible, and she didn't like that thought at all. She sat down. Well at least there was a floor, so “nothing” might be too strong a word. Slightly . . . But nonetheless . . . The unease was slowly turning to mild panic.
Now girl, get a grip of yourself
, she thought,
this is no time for panicking . . . No time for panicking!? Surely if ever there were a time for panicking this was it. And didn't she have all the time in the world, beyond the world. Might as well get the panic over and done with so she can settle in and relax.
So she stood up and screamed, screamed with all her considerable might sending an echo around the emptiness that lasted a good few seconds.
Aha. An echo means walls . . . and walls often mean a door? All I have to do is keep walking straight . . . and in time
. . . At this point she hit something solid with her head.
Fuck! That hurt.
Almost immediately a door appeared where she had hit her head. It was a large panelled door, freshly painted in black gloss with an enormous brass knob at chest height and a rather splendid engraved brass letterbox which she proceeded to bellow through.
Helllooooo!
. . . Nothing. She was just about to shout again when she thought she caught the distant tapping a footsteps on a hard stone floor. Yes, definitely coming her way, and in something of a rush. She pressed her ear to the door. As the footsteps got closer she could just hear an intermittent wheezing accompanying them. Suddenly they slowed, then stopped.