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 I met a really
lovely bloke a few months ago who claims to be the current reincarnation
of Nostradamus. Appropriately enough for these seductive millennial
times, he calls himself “Our Ladies’ Man”.
When I asked him
whether he writes prophecies in enigmatic quatrains, he replied, “Not
on your rhymin’ Nellie. People today are as suspicious of guru
half-truths as they are of political promises, to say nothing of
statements that require any personal effort of thought. I tell it to ‘em
straight and plain, taking Hollywood as my model.”
“Would you care
to make a few predictions for my Bikwil readers?”
“How many would
you like?”
“Half a dozen’ll
do.”
Here they are,
then, just as he declaimed them to me. I offer them in their bare
simplicity, without further comment.
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Whenever
schismatic beasts arise, the avenging eye of Vulcan must needs
eclipse the mirror of reality.
Armageddon will chastise
their titanic frenzy, but not before the centurial microbe
devours the edge of time.
Have you heard? it's in the
stars: next July we collide with Mars.
Pope springs eternal in the
transformed messenger from the inner pyramid of Babylon.
The ph balance of fiery
hair and golden breastplate, having seven times cursed the
ancient mysteries of the friend’s hammer, will then be taken
up in Vesta’s alabaster purging cloud.
The Charleston will never
last.
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