Gnostic Lone Wolf Poetry

The crowd is captured. For this evening, they will move with their host’s words. They will laugh when he jokes, and weep when he sighs. The host continues his introduction, but the performance has already begun.

“My life began in the wilds of Borneo, twenty-two years ago, during Monsoon season, already an orphan. Just as I escaped her womb, lightning struck my mother killing her instantly. My father I did not meet until years later. The storm destroyed the entire area, yet somehow I survived. Fortunately my saviors arrived in haste, visitors from a far away galaxy, they bore me up into the cosmos, and gave to me a childhood full of wonder and fantasy. They gave to me a consciousness of culture, and of the mind. We sailed through the stars on a didactic adventure until I was a hot-blooded youth, seventeen years old, with a burning desire to return home.

“I sought my father in America, and found him, but we had few words to exchange. I began to realize that I’d never really known this, the world of my birth. Many of its customs seemed strange, though I was no stranger to strange custom. I decided to entertain four years at a University in America; there I could gather a better understanding of this world, while living in a place likely to be less conscious of my then awkward habits. I found myself in an artful world, that only in the past few decades had begun to dispense with needlessly rigid creative architectures in favor of a rawer inspiration. I come here, this night, to share with you my reflections. Though I be young and incomplete in my knowledge of the greater context of these affairs, I hope you will find them, if not insightful, then, at the least, entertaining.”

The host bows, and the crowd applauds.

Eventually I will make a fancy about page, but why not, for now, a more…personal introduction.

*waddles up to microphone wearing cross-play Princess Leia outfit that shows off his pop gut and makes young children turn away in terror*

“Hiii, mina-san! I’m Seth-san, but you can call me Seth. I’m very VERY happy to be here. I’m single, and my three sizes are–”

Twelve men in black masks descend from the sky on ropes of infinite strength, catching the man at the microphone in a large burlap sack, and morphing his ecstatic introduction into muffled cries. There is smoke and the sound of firecrackers. The smoke clears and the popping ceases; the military men are gone, as is the sacked narrator, and the microphone. The entire space goes silent for near on a minute. In the sky, afternoon is melting into evening. A wind slowly picks up, making waves in the immense curtains on stage. The audience collectively shivers, unprepared for the influx, as the wind whips through them becoming violent. Hats fly off, and well-dressed women yelp. Suddenly the entire curtain flies into the air, lifted by this omega draft, revealing not rows of props, actors, and equipment, but an immense red and black swirling portal that stretches across the entire width and height the curtains occupied moments ago. From this, a single carnation falls onto the stage, barely visible to those in the crowd. And then a man steps through, dropping to retrieve this flower without breaking his stride. He stands six feet tall, dressed in a top-hat, suit, and cape that are the black and red of the portal from which he emerged. Straight black hair descends from his hat to form a collar around the nape of his neck. He wears white gloves, a spotless complexion, and a playful smile.

This man approaches the front of the stage, fitting the carnation into the pocket of his shirt as he walks. Upon reaching the front, he stops, pitches a hand into the air, and snaps his fingers with a flourish. The curtain falls behind him, and the violent wind dies with such an immediancy that the air cracks in response, echoing the snap of the well-dressed man’s fingers.

He speaks without the need for a microphone.

“Good evening everyone. I apologize for the delay. I will be your host for the show tonight.”