The Last Story Ever Told

The Last Storyteller took his seat
And cleared his throat
And began to tell the universe’s last story.

‘Now, this story has long been passed down
And like genetics and royal crowns
It serves to imbue the nature of consciousness with glory!’


And so he continued…


‘The universe is much bigger than you and I
And the stars in the sky
And everything we’ve ever seen
Is nothing

Compared to what there is and what there was
And what there will be
When entropy meets entropy.

At a certain point in space and time
There once occurred parallel meetings of minds
By people almost entirely opposed in thoughts and deed.

And these dialogues were preserved
So that after the end of the beginning was observed
We can still ponder what it was like
To look up to the stars and dream.

And we will know that as it ends this way
So it may begin again
In some form, someday

And yet this may quite possibly be
The last story ever told.


So listen now…


‘Rules are for breaking,’
Said the Wanker to the Priest,
Imploring him with a vaguely familial tongue

‘You know, I feel the words that we speak,
Are both equally meek and the time for real action has come.’

The Wanker and the Priest
Were both intrigued by each others needs
And had met regarding
A mutual interest in the progress of dialogue.

‘Are we dilettante theorists?
With no substance
Just style and feeling?
And is there a difference between this
And your average demagogue?’

The Priest said this almost as if with fear
Surprised at his own irreverence
And cavalier
Attitude toward what was before beyond question.

‘Oh well,
Creation is the child of necessity,’

The Priest said clearly with a disarming sincerity
‘Its riddles like these tired but true knowledge often rests in.'

The two men talked to each other
And you’ve heard the talk before
Of sexual love, deadly sins, rationality and faith

And they agreed to never disagree
And never again take glee
In the other’s shame
They knew the law of averages
Meant one day their differences would be the same.


Meanwhile,


‘True art cannot coexist with true conservatism,’
Said the Liberal to the Libertine Sheik.
They lay sprawled by the pool
Their civil discourse a tool
Preserving the illusion that they were not wolves
But sheep.

‘This whole place is a mess,
Can we digress from this path,
Simian prétentieux et ainsi magnifique?’

The Liberal said this well aware
Of the irony and of his own pretension
Although there was still infused a slightly audacious bent

To denote his own stature
And deflect his friend’s mocking laughter
At the obviousness of his affectation and intent.

‘Do you realize how you sound?’
Said the Sheik, with a faint frown

‘When you use anothers words
You are viewing with anothers vision.’

‘The two things are not the same,’
The Liberal said, ‘It’s all façade
The words themselves are nothing but a meaningless division!

We are divided, no?

There is such dry humour in the innate
And but for god and his solemn sake
What I said before would confirm itself with its inherent truth.

We all use different words
To say the same thing
But I feel oblivion is age wracked by youth.

All this space that is empty
Could one day be full
When all these differences are gone
Then one will be as all

And all will be as one
And one will be as everything
And everything will be nothing more
Than the non-existence of suffering.’

These words had the feel of import
By way of nonsense
But as the Libertine Sheik thought
Words and talk are cheap
But true insight rare

He pondered what had been said
Was silent briefly, then raised his head
And fixed the Liberal with an imposing stare

The Libertine Sheik said:
‘Can you count your wives on two hands?
No?
Does it sadden you to have only one?’

The Liberal frowned and paused,
Then said: ‘That’s food for thought.’
And he puzzledly pondered his notion of objective freedom.

He mused, half to himself:

‘The pleasure that I sought
And the life that I bought
Didn’t cost half what it ought to have been.

The same seems to be true for my friend
And although we begin at different ends
Is there a point on this moral highway where we convene?

Now I think of it, I would like two wives
And I can see he now ponders our lives
Like an ice age ending
He sees drops of knowledge forbidden
Drip from what was once frozen.

And yet here we both stand
To each his own, but enlightened men
We both think we live just as we would have chosen.


Would we have chose different things?
What have I chosen?’
He was left thinking…


‘Stop your horrible shrieking, you’re driving me wild.’
Said the Old Man to the Wide-Eyed Child
As she ran across the lawn chasing butterflies

‘Can you find nothing better to do?
Must I put up with the likes of you?
Must I wait patiently until you realise

That nothing is surprising
Except surprise itself.
It’s a fine thing to have seen so much
That to show wonder would be an act.

You could learn a thing or two from me,
Although by looking at you I can see
That I too, could perhaps learn from you
And that’s a fact.’

The Old Man gazed studiously
At the Wide-Eyed Child
And she sensed he
Yearned for something
That he had lost and she still possessed.

‘Old Man, why do you study me so?
If you know all there is to know
Why in me would you of your time invest?

I’ll put it as simple as I can
Being the Wide-Eyed Child
Of a Simple Man

Although, perhaps as you can tell
I’m about as simple
As the phenomenon of singularity

It’s a sublimely convenient excuse
For a plot device to abuse
My astonishing verbosity
Coupling an intellect of such clarity
Yet this is reality…

And with such hilarity

Such hilarity!

But, we must continue the narrative;
Presently, immediately, yet unforeseeably and naturally


Can we?


My actions reflected my interests
As I chased that insect princess
She was so pretty, her vivid colour
Made my soul sing

At present all I want
Are such pleasures as this,
The love of which I suspect is
The very aspect of me you are interested in?

The Old Man surrendered a smile
Although hesitant and slight
And said: ‘You are right, it’s what you don’t know
That makes your existence to me worthwhile.’

The Old Man didn’t realise
That his young friend, through her reply
Had ridiculed what he had assumed at first sight

‘That beautiful butterfly that you pursue
In a matter of days will die and you
Young child, seem gravely
And disturbingly unaware!’

The Wide Eyed Child did have a sense
Of the nature of mortality
And its effects on the object of her affection
Although this sense was minor

Overall she did not much care.

She would love it whilst there

And with that we will go

From here

And with that we will go to there:


‘What does it all mean?’
Said the blind man to the deaf man

Said the deaf man to the blind man:
‘I can’t hear you
And you’re talking to the wall.’

The blind man said:
‘If you can’t hear me then why am I talking?
Anyway, I’ve decided to continue
This conversation with said wall!’

‘And that was it.’

Said the Last Storyteller.

‘I hope you were listening.’

‘That is all.’