deepundergroundpoetry.com

THE FARTIST

Once, long ago, in a land far forgotten by the annals of history, lived a young man who had one day
witnessed the most glorious of visions ever perceived by humankind. The shape of its beauty was
impossible to describe by mere words, nor was the melodious echo of ecstasy which permeated the air with its sacred song.
   The young man knew that he must share at least one miniscule fragment of this majestic entity with the world, and so he began his quest as an artist.
   He stole clay from the earth so that he might sculpt an image of this perfection..
Stealing, however, was a serious crime in this province, the punishment being the right hand severed from the perpetrator. The punishment was served.
   Knowing that he would never be able to function in society, having been marked as a criminal,
the young man fled to find refuge in a lawless land of barbarous savages where he could freely
paint an image of his vision upon tree bark, using the hair from his head as a brush, and the blood leaking from his wound as pigment.
   There were no laws in this domain, except for the single crime of masturbation, for it was considered a great insult to the many lustful women who stood by ready and eager to please
any man in any way. The punishment for this crime was the severing of the right hand, followed by exile. Upon seeing the young man with one hand, they mistook him as a returning exile, and the punishment for an exile's return was the severing of the left hand and genitals, so that he may never commit his crime again, followed by a public stoning, and yet another exile.
   The young man wandered for days in a stupor, seeking the great monastery upon an enormous isolated hill, where he could learn to sing of his glorious vision amongst the other eunuchs. The monks were known to forgive all sins of the past, as long as they did not recur, for this would lead to banishment from their holy haven. The one and only sin that was not to be tolerated was that of the drunkard, for wine was considered a blessed sacrament, and to become inebriated by voracious quantities of this holy liquid, where only pious amounts were required to be intoxicated by their deity
was seen as the greatest blasphemy .
   Upon seeing the young man, still stumbling in his stupor from the stoning that he had received, the monks believed him to be quite drunk.
   With unwavering mercy, the monks sawed his arms and legs off and plucked his eyes out from his skull so that he could never again seek out to abuse the sweet delicate muse of the sacred wine.
They then cut out his tongue so that he could never again beg for nor be seduced by the taste of its sublime perfection.
   His new wounds were cauterized and the monks then carried him to the far edge of the hill, shoving him off like a log to roll into his destiny.    
   It seemed like eternity as he coiled into blind oblivion, but the large hill eventually ended, and the young man found himself in a ditch by a pathway that very few ever travelled.
   As the days passed, he survived by drinking the dirty ditch water engulfing him, but as the days spread into weeks without nourishing sustenance, his gut began to swell with gasses as his stomach slowly fed upon itself. Death sat nearby like a vulture waiting for its imminent meal.
   As the young man struggled with his final breaths, a wandering minstrel passed by on that lonely
road on his way to seek employment as the king's entertainer. He paused in a moment of horror and sorrow as he gazed at the fading remnants of this dying shell of a man.
   In that moment the gasses had built up to a point that the young man could no longer contain it.
He proceeded to fart out the most exquisite, elaborate symphony ever conceived.
   It was as if the voices of a thousand angels gathered together in a choir of perfect harmony, the unique voice of each note blended together perfectly within their intrinsic contrast, mimicking and yet praising the plight of all mankind, so that they would all dance together with love in that moment, and for all eternity. And with the release of one final note was revealed the true name of God.
   Guilt consumed the minstrel for abandoning that poor wretched soul, but even more so for robbing the world of his song. He labored fervently to reproduce what he had witnessed, but neither by lute nor lyre nor flute was he able to duplicate that glorious ass opera.
   As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the song slowly faded from his memory until it remained nothing more than an elusive ghost lost wandering forever through the ether.
   ....but if you open your mind and your senses, you may still catch a remnant of its magnificent essence, for the song of the Fartist still drifts upon the shifting breeze of the world, and within the fluctuating winds of our souls.
     
     
       
   
Written by archetype23
Published
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