Opera Cryptus | by Oyin Oludipe

Oh Solomon, there are morbid treads on the loft!

Rabid sinews of craving have carried their tributes to an underworld dalliance. Drop. Drab. Drop. There are eternities caught between camwood, dirge and lust. Are there still scars glimmering on the tarmac of graves? There is no fetter to the limp of foolery, be it betrothed to trenches, drawn over visors or tangled on its recalcitrant colophons. In the name of the void, silences transcend the consent of demise, as tongue-screeches of an inglorious corpse to whom rations such as bread or dust are for ever forbidden.

Oh Wise One, how do the dead utter? The tremble of the rash springs not shrewd reconciliations. No spectators clasp them in piteous waves, not even as one earth in mourning atrophy to another. Only searing figures of oblivion are to be caught by Dante’s hubristic ancestries, discarding all rites of memory. Even as such avarice ceded to human races, de Gaulle’s thirst abstains…

What crowds call homage is wounded scorn and constant fear. What history calls fear is carnage and exiles of courtesy – redeeming ecstasies of repression, harbingers of human concealment, in hunger dramatic, crushing dynasties of left-over breeds and brokenly – notions. I shall not varnish the drought. Let it remain hounded into arid yet docile throats; stunted stalks of promise afflicted by denial turned cautious stillness. Oh I attest to the tyranny of want in all places, to the farce it brews on stages of minds. Only few transcend the bound, they are herald to the dearth, the lost passions and lost presences.

 

Only few heed the sun,    

Gluttons run beneath, as impaled  

Rats on sweetened portions  

How do the dead utter?  

In caravans of wilting robes?

The caveats of hoisted infamies are ignored, whether they come from grisly laps of flood, shrivelled tar, beach encampment and market storms or from vile founts of gold and tyrant waters. The descent of humanity narrates the folly of progression, though it tricks the people in the revelation of space. It stows away in tides the benevolence of familiarities, levying doubts and rousing motions of claimant grief. Master is he who masters grief. Lecher is he who massages, enervates mind in pleasures of frictions.
   

Bloodlust opera, the foulest show of our season is spun in the grasping, ever-snatching fists that shall be heirs, feet of promise that care less to trample yet yearn to usurp. The foulest grin is in the silence that ensues, morbid and numb.

Ours is a theater of intentions. One mind, one crypt.

Picture Credit: @SeeMeSeeNigeria