in decay that reassembles what’s left behind is trying to leave a message in the day that is its birthcry
What grinds and chews unseemly at your gate, your scribbling thoughts gone wobbled? Do not underestimate the choice. A protean wash, your willingness. You lack the proteins and so instead gargle therewith. No, then. Left off in study. Letting gargoyles suckle your thighs.
You think, amongst their talk of what it is you do or don’t, that you may as well give up the ghost — or at any rate keep it all selfward. To quote a bible, WRONG. What you strive to do has larger schemes than one’s & zero’s on a screen of what they isn’t. The thrown projection of personality to macrocosm breaks a crown, but not yours. Queen of Pentacles, you are and I AM as you a mirror. Not the same as theater. Some see and see that they were led by pageantry, by the enactment of an entertainment that does more blob than food. Our ministry proposes flood. Or, if not, at least a humbling disaster.
The way we remember childhood, then, is mostly wrong. Not for nothing did our fathers fuck us blind, or both. We’ve outgrown certain gloves. Ah, home: the smell of something burning. Retracing the old labryinths we had drawn, staring down wraiths in the looking pond. Everything we touch will come to creak, will swelter & melt, retreating into else. The self as well and all as well preserved for a search engine necromancer. Nonetheless, there are tangles of toys we can pry apart. There are dolls and the anguished days preserved therein embalmed. Whose tomb is this? you ask. We open our mouths to answer.
And so a gaping maw & paw chokes, swats at confidence. Something new, though, swoops into the space left by disillusion. Fusion with the demon weave & warp it makes a multiple face, grinning off into things it knows and we prefer not to. Distortion looms not as a suffering of what is real but rather as an anchorhold. At least. Until. You know. We do. It’s a puzzle with hands, this river, and its twin is little better. Vision comes to us, but only as a dark blue shifting ink against the black. Or sometimes, uh, it’s red.
Written close to the bone and a stone’s throw away from the tree the apple falls far from, we need to take stock of the storm. Turn it from us into ornament, an evergreen tree carried in back pocket at all times. The city we knew has up and left or perhaps just crumpled into smoke. Remember, however, that the core of the thing is its memory both fore & aft, shots taken to render immunity. Melancholic anatomies are subject good as any to the impermanence that is constant, in its way, reminder of the spirit.
And so it is we shall depart.
Blog at WordPress.com.
Theme: Monotone by Automattic.
