The behemoth starts and stops in fits, falls in pits, busting wrists and thrusting slits. Moving towards awe on this blood-stricken pathway of the animals. Circumscribed for us all is the plinth upon whom our origins tremble. From the celestial beginnings upon the glittering colossal lens we are the eternally blooming rot clinging to the bark of this sinewy selfness. Underneath howling terror unfolds the most atrocious of the fiery maws gaping to swallow the raw stench of this hideous existence. A scorching duality that tears us apart as it engulfs the flaw. Unclench the sordid flesh that dresses for the occasion hoping to the make the station on the way to the place where wishes are granted, dreams made manifest, vaginas stretched wide to receive the burden of many more lives before the cycle is brought to a screech. Beats guide the star-scattered minds that lost left from right in their reveling through the nights. To see is to dream with open eyes, to live is to die with closed heart and mind. We don’t live and die, we dive – feet-first into this unrelenting flood of biblical proportions. Hexagonal hives harken to hearts hung high: diving is the opposite of flying. Salivating at the slightest touch, nay, shall we say as we levitate at the lightest flush. Hush the little ones to their quietest chuckles, the merest flutter will unbalance this leviathan. Only two moments more and the beast shall bare its bones to the stars, tear itself apart by the navel, reveal our marrow to the heavens, engorge our bosoms towards the infinite skies of the hidden glades under the endless space between all times. Throughout the boundlessness of this cataclysm remains one pulsating buzz of the bitterest juices, these hormones of love’s wickedest poison, coursing through crotch after crotch, upheaving masses from their niches, unleashing green tremors across vast expanses, spitting vibrations at our house of altars. All the last of the encumbrances are yielded to bringing that other some speak of as sublime. Divine. The holy. Wholly true and fully blue from bat to brew, the witches stew: egg fried groundhogs with a tablespoon of poo. Yo yo don’t go, bro, the time’s the time for another round! It’s always the same time, and no farther do we climb. Then why the split, twist, and the writhing with doubt? No doubt because of the wirings of the cloud of grey and white. What is most despicable of all is just how readily the water trickles down its rightful spout into the mire of its own demise. What is most foolish of all is how vainly it tries and flails against the current and gravity of its fall and fails. Again must we be brought right back to this age-old debate that was many times thought settled never truly unfettered? Shatter their frames and cast them asunder. Is it possible to break them all into a single piece? Tear them apart, and destroy them and disintegrate them, and reduce them to one. The questioner is back? Is the questioner back! What of the warriors of the east, they that have travelled many a path long before my bosom was first rocked gently upon this troubled rock? And our poets in the north, what of they, those with hearts unfurled into the ocean of our misery? Shall we pay homage to the pilgrims in the southland, those tamers of wilderness and minds? What say ye of the pillagers of the west, seizing and erecting and vainly grazing with their head held high?
Alas, the morrow shall bring us a stronger heart to carry the weight of this struggle for one more eon of gladness and sorrow before blessed extinction scatters this heaviness into the ether.