to Jesters, ye who triumph where people forgot to look

Jesters, vile victors and lowly triumphantees; what pathetic victories over the earth they claim each day
for their Sovereign and themselves; such fleeing self-affirmation of things
already known and understood, been conquered---confirmation of the likely firm things; Nothingness.
And Comedy, too such shallow and impotent triumph. boasting their little happiness in discovering the world's lack of constant Purpose and truthful driving Power, again and again.
The most nihilistic triumph of the Socratic clown when he convinced every one of his time with a phantom-spell (though, that spell was not cast solely by his Magic)
that every spark of divine hearth-fire in each House or in the wilderness is a signal from the shadows of his prison Cave.
His Cave, not ours. His attempted escape, not ours.
Not mine. My darkness shall swallow up the flood of fire and extinguish the conflagration of shades westerly that flew eastwards ever and ever in the interminable flow of history…ah, this is my Black and Dead Sea!
The opening in that Cave where light came in is my mouth of truth (Bocca della Verità), so I rob the solar Sun of her brilliance to illuminate the dark abyss inside.
that is not a figurative expression. by which I mean my dimly-lit chilling intestines, that river going only forwards and forwards like universal history till destruction and oblivion, that torrential outpour of mud do justice to all fire, shadow and feigning-thinking clowns.
"Tharmas!"
I have found within that deep mine of mine, a lode of ruddy razor-minerals. I think they cut cowardly thinkers and uninspired poets just fine, but with some polish they will cut that running away gutless Sun---the Truth-cow who will not go willingly into my Mouth!
I EAT!