Whichever interpretation is settled upon, this story’s tone and interpretation of Amanda tells a story in itself, and as such its very existence suggests much about the nature and breadth of the Palmeresque as it is currently evolving. And that is why I have chosen it.
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One last point: the names on the gravestones were all those of artists that had in some way or other worked with Amanda. Initially this was taken as sign that the author was familiar with Amanda’s recordings and stage show, however it was later found that they were all amongst the Artists I Support section of her My-Space page at the time of her death, and therefore could easily have been found by anyone doing the slightest research.
TEXT NUMBER THREE
One Day Last Week I Met Amanda Palmer
A poem written upon the unexpected revelation that Amanda Palmer was in fact the Devil Incarnate
One day last week I saw Amanda Palmer
And yet six long months had passed since she had died
And though her visage bore the scars of all that time spent in the ground
Still I recognised Amanda in her eyes.
And I could tell she knew me too, for she was smiling
Or was it just the deathly grin of Fate?
And so I stood there, quite uncertain, and I pulled on my moustache
As she beckoned me to join her for something of a debate.
Well I wasn’t going to turn down such an offer
For not often is one visited by the dead
So I made my way towards her, and I proffered her my hand
But she just laughed... “Don’t you presume so much,” she said
“Oh I’m no longer that Amanda Palmer
I’ve come here to reveal the Truth to You
I am the very architect of all sorrows You endure
I think you know me as the Devil, how do you do?!
For often do I long to walk among you
To join your eager reverie of despair
And from time to time I cast myself in lowly human form
That I might walk your streets and breathe your soiled air
Oh yes, I’ve worn a hundred thousand faces
My names have been too many to recall
But this Amanda Palmer, she was much more fun than most
I must admit, she will indeed prove memorable
But let me get to what must be an urgent question
Why am I here? Why have I come to talk to you?
Well I’ve been watching you young man, seen how you question everything
And thought I might pop up and offer you a clue...
Don’t get me wrong, for this is not a friendly gesture
Oh no, I shall never be a friend to any Man
But your eagerness to know will sow the seeds of your destruction
So I thought I’d pop up and offer you a helping hand
For I’ve seen you out there looking for an honest soul
In a lying world where everyone’s a whore
Well here I am, Your one and only honest soul, on a visit from the Damned
Your servant, and oh-so much more.”
Well I was stumped and just a little bit bewildered
And though I tried, my tongue was tied, I couldn’t speak
And Amanda just looked deep into my frightened little eyes, and she said
“You don’t believe in me yet young man! But you will! Now if you please, follow me!”
And with a bitter claw she grabbed my arm and dragged me
Far far away from all my company and friends,
She said: “There’s something I feel that I must show you, young man
A kind of tour of all my children and their sins
“For you know, there IS a God that reigns above you
Though he is unconcerned with all your petty little games
And just between you and me, off the record, naturally,
The Bible is His word, just as it claims
“But Your God Above has long since lost all interest
And St Peter sits beside a rusty gate
And as he awaits his Lord’s return he blames his loneliness on You,
I know, I’ve been up there, and taught him how to Hate.
“And before He left, Your Lord came down below for a visit
Said he was moving on to see more interesting things
He said to me “You were always my favourite Son,
You made it fun,” and he smiled as he offered me his keys.
“Now at first I played the role with patient subtlety
Not realising quite why Your Lord had gone
But then I saw the seeds I’d sown, so very very long ago
Had taken root, and grown thick branches, and I realised I’d won.
“But let’s go back, back to not long after the beginning
Let me show You how all these things have come to pass”
And with a gesture of her hand she banished every sign of Man
And I stood in a wilderness of trees and grass.
She said:
“This is how it was soon after the beginning
And to start with it was such a simple deal
All this above was His, all that below our feet, was mine
And You guys dancing on the boundary with Your new-fangled Free
Will.
“Well, I wasn’t interested in You at all to start with
Frankly, I just didn’t give a damn
I was busy in the core, smelting down my metal ores
To build foundations for the realm I call a home
“And He seemed to be quite happy with His playthings
As You pranced about picking berries and hunting boar
But then I heard You come a-scratching on the roof of my foundations–
You were pilfering my precious metal ores
“So that was the first curse that I sent You
For You never realised that these things were mine
And no matter what You made, be it elegant or fierce
It would follow my intentions in good time
“Every broach became a beacon for my Vices
Each arrowhead a channel for my will
Attracting Pride and Envy, Greed and Lust and Wrath
Oh, so effortlessly was Your future sealed
“And up there on His throne He saw it coming
And I think He quite enjoyed the little game
For I heard Him laughing smugly as He tinkered with His toys
Inventing something new to help You on Your way
“And so He gave You Beauty, and the artfulness to catch it
And to free it from a block of wood, or stone
And, to be fair, You caught on quickly, with Your pigments and designs
And I could feel You slipping further from my realm
“So I pondered and considered and constructed
Until slowly I devised the perfect trap:
An elaborate concoction called Religion, in a hundred
Different drafts, scattered right across the map
“And every draft had its own unlikely stories
And every story had its heroes and its damned
And in Your tongue, I called Him God, And I called myself The Devil
But that was flattery on both counts, You understand.
“He gave You Faith, but I gave You Delusion
He gave You Love, but it was I who gave You Lust
He gave You untold riches in the next life, or so he said
But I gave You gold, and in gold You can immediately trust
“He gave You Contentment, but I gave You Glory
He gave You Restraint, but I gave You Desire
He gave You the quiet satisfaction of being one with Yourself
But I gave You Adventure, Invention, Ambition and Fear
“He gave You Music to seduce You from my passions
I gave You Writing to contain Your wildest fancies –
He turned
my writing into poetry, I turned his Music into Dance
And so We pulled and pushed across the weary centuries
“So He and I, like spiteful playmates, spiked the potion
With ever more exotic complications
Until the mixture grew too rich to drink, too thick to pour
And bubbled mischievously with explosive implications
“Then We retreated, and We watched, and We waited
We had agreed there would be no more interference
For the scene had been well set, and the game was now afoot
And We gambled on the outcome with great impatience
“And how We smiled to see You tending to Your talents
Distilling many powerful notions from the mire
For the rest was up to You, and Your brilliance shining through
Would leave us gasping both in Awe and in Despair
“For it never was a game of Good and Evil
You could never draw its lines in Black and White
There were never simple choices; but a thousand different voices
Each one calling “Follow me” into the night
“And many of You led, and still more of You followed
And the thing that You call Culture soon evolved
But with Culture came Division, with Division came Derision
And so the story of Your Becoming slowly unfolds:
“Every temple was built upon the blood of cousins
Each palace was stained with greed’s betrayal
And Your cities’ bold foundations crushed the graves of many nations
As You congratulated Yourselves with vainglorious tales
“For War it was that begat Civilisation,
And Civilisation it was that begat War
And the two danced hand in hand across the Millennia,
Spreading Beauty and Disaster – ever demanding more
“And then there came those incredible Artworks
Far beyond even Our greatest conceptions:
There was Music that blended the compassion of a fool
With an arrogant man’s bold assertions
“There were paintings that flooded the senses
Miraculous visions, exquisitely drawn
Almost painful to behold, they were so keenly seen
So desperately driven into form
“And so We marvelled at Your spirit, and We marvelled at Your Soul
And Your capacity to see beyond the Real
And yet the more You were surrounded by the spoils of your crimes
The more their dark foundations were concealed
“Creation and Destruction, Beauty and Death
To name the one is to define the other
Justice and Insanity, Holiness and Vanity
The parade of Hypocrites goes on forever”
And here she paused, as if lost upon reflection
Of the most dramatic import of her words
And with a gesture of her wrist she beckoned in the mist
And I was swallowed in its billowing twists and turns
But then, suddenly I saw it was a thousand million ghosts
A seething mass of limbs all writhing and straining
As if a parody of carnival grotesques had gone berserk –
For She was showing me the Hypocrites parading
And so I watched as many centuries of denial drifted past
Until finally she spoke: “Please forgive my visual gimmickry
I know there is no need to impress you with such tricks
But I offer you these scenes in casual sincerity
“For Your curse, the curse of Man, is that You seek to understand
But the closer that You look the less You see
And whilst You’re staring at a pin-head, searching out the Soul of Man
A whole world of unimagined answers passes by
“Oh it’s all a matter of perspective, you understand
You cannot see what you’re looking at without looking away
And these tormented Souls that drift, forever cursing their desires
Deny themselves a life, for fear of losing face
“These are not the spirits of the dead or damned
They are the everyday folk of your modern land
Alive, but not alight, they pass the time
“And then at night their dreams are filled
With every fear and taboo thrill
Before they wake, and once again they stand in line
“And then this quiet dissatisfaction
Slowly eats away inside them
Until they wake one day to find their heart is hollow
“And all that they can feel
Is resentment and betrayal
Though towards whom and by what they do not know
“And soon they are condemning
And soon they are a-preaching
And banging fists on doors for to complain
“But what they really crave
Is far too dangerous to know -
They’ve given up, and always look the other way
“For the most devastating Silence is of words left unspoken
Of fantasies hounded by shame -
For they wither the Soul ‘till the Spirit is broken
Or explode into ugly disdain
“Sure, Truth is Beauty, and Beauty is Truth
But so is Violence, Corruption and Fear
So make sure you look up when you’re walking on water
But look down when you’re crossing the mire
“Every man, every woman and child is born
With a Vision that is waiting to sing
But for most it is easier to simply deny
There is anything burning within
“For to sing would bring Confusion, and Confusion courts Despair
And so the scaffolding around them tumbles down
And so for fear of being left up in the air, their eyes are closed
And their mouths will ne’er conceive a melodious sound
“I look into Your cities’ sallow eyes in search of light
And certainly activity bewilders –
I see a veritable hive of imperfections, masturbations
Titillations, and distractions to consider
“So I seek beneath the glamour and monotonous clamour
For the heretics, the martyrs, the condemned
And I call upon the glorious hole-builders of old
Those champions on whom I could always depend
“But nobody answers, nobody comes forth
No, not one whisper of a creeping revelation
Not the slightest stink of chaos, nor the briefest glimpse of Love
Beyond the usual smug self-satisfaction
“Oh, where are the true Saints and the true Sinners?
Your visions have become more tedious than Your crimes
And whilst You measure Your reflection in the mirror of Deception
Every one of You betrays the next in line
“So if you are truly searching for an honest soul
Waste not your idle time splitting day from night
It is right here among the Damned that will you find that steady hand
For only in the Darkness shines the Light
“Only the chained Soul cries out for freedom
Only the muddied heart looks up toward the sky above
And there is not one living Soul among your many brethren
That is not Damned by his own hand for want of Love
“For that is why I made Amanda Palmer
Why I chose to come among you in her form
For the spirit of a singer can reach deep into the heart
Of every coward and deceiver ever born
“Oh yes, Music is the king of all emotions
It rules them with a firm and steady hand
Demanding silence of the ego’s bold commotions
It stills the rampant miseries of the Damned
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“And what better way to wreak my merry havoc
Than to fill Your wanton worn out Spirits with desire
For a voice that reaches forth with such exquisite sexual drama
And a beauteous form, richly wrought from sexual fire
“Yes that is why I made Amanda Palmer
To light up the flame of hope within your dreams
For without it You become as tedious as the Bible can seem long
When it is lit, You entertain with some adequacy
“Oh yes, that is why I made Amanda Palmer
For to remind You what it is to be alive
For it is hope defines despair, and success longs for disaster
And in those vices my idle fingers thrive”
And with those words she vanished in an instant
And I was back among the gardens with my friends
And though the perfumes smelt so sweet
And the fellowship seemed complete
I was alone, for Innocence had found its End!
A Personal Extroduction from Text Number Three
By XXXXX XXX
Well, where do I begin? For a start this poem doesn’t really fit any of the pre-requisites for a palmeresque and yet I found it both fascinating and perplexing in equal measure, and on so many levels, not all of them good. To my mind it is clearly attempting to take on the tradition of the metaphysical poets of old. I see the shades of Coleridge, Blake, Donne, Milton, all looming over it and most probably looking down disapprovingly. Don’t get me wrong, this is not a great poem by any means, but it certainly tries, occasionally almost gets there, then comes out with a line so clumsy and naive that these aspirations are quickly forgotten. Indeed I occasionally found myself laughing out loud, a rare event indeed, particularly when judging literary competitions.
Let me start with the presentation of Amanda Palmer herself. By casting her as a literal face of the Devil the author has effectively deified her, remaking in the guise of a magical being. This is perhaps not so surprising given the fan based nature of the origins of the Palmeresque. But then, as the story (if that is the right word) unfolds the magic is somewhat tarnished by her general sense of dissatisfaction. (I imagine that is why she felt the need to return to our realm and report on the problem, as this is not revealed in the text.) Towards the end the Devil explains that she made herself into Amanda Palmer basically to stir things up a little as she was bored. Not a glorious spiritual conclusion really. Thus on the narrative level this poem therefore fails, but it does retain some dignity through its commitment to its argument.
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 6
