“Farewell…those that make ambition virtue!…Farewell this neighing steed, the shrill trump…”, Yorick emphatically grumbles the words of his creator: upon smelling the arrival of…unicorns.

Unicorns, or so they seem, pawing the prairie.   Unicorns, galloping pure intentionists with emotive tendencies; proffering cheap (and very symmetrical) gods, myths, and art.  Purists, purist avant-gardeists, purists enfant terribles; noodling towards obnoxious as once the typical, mythical unicorns,  sniffed to find a virgin.

Encroaching the pasture (to poop) claimed by centaurs, unicorns begin each conversation with a recapitulation and refutation of both men and centaur.  Obviously they are philosophically construed or at least given to wordy rationalized incoherency.  As it is, their plastic ivory horns lack the rigidity suitable to puncture reality to the root: in hopes of probing theories that lack error.  These purist enfant-terribles convolute esoteric systems to control art’s logic, in endless disempathetic word creations.  By size, bluster, and righteous attitude (enforced with copious miniature bomblets), self-made unicorns demand a place at the reunion of  imperfect artists.  But, it is asked, have they made anything other than showy ribbons and bows?

 

Purists need syncopates and servants, maybe virgin-dream bidden, maybe coerced by the caprice of the mounted mendacity. Also, having associated celebrity is a much sought after condition, and the probable reason for processing with a unicorn.

“How number thee?  The quantity of Unicorns?  When compared with the genius of honorable men.”, Yorick ponders while pacing the land once walked by the Emancipator’s mule.

“10 to 1, 50 to 1, 1000 to 1?”,  we try to answer Yorick but find it a false compare: which part is Myth, and which part is simply feared… not seen.

Unicorns who find virgins have a peculiar appetite.

With any luck, the tent starts to rise…next Saturday.

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