Not Quite Night

Lovely. The stillborn ideas of idiots. Of everything wonderful. The baby corn in fields – ever growing, ever young, ever pushing for space, crowding for attention. The baldness of reality, the pain the purity the sullied skin of growth the fall the autumn browning the palms cupping the salt crunching the medicine. The totem pole? The Grand Plan? Forget everything. Forget and laugh with the audience. Get over it. Crazy for fulfillment. Crazy for noon alone. Crazy to sleep to swallow to cum to finish to never stop to live it to capture it forever. The paradox. The brain the biology the unadulterated scorn and passion of conscious thought. The pure hell the blunted paradise where we wallow. Seeking, awakening, numbing.

A vision. A secret. A call in the middle of the night. The song. The unifier. The dance. Thematic, exposed, carefree. Costumes. Customs. Play yourself as something else. Inspiration in sweat. In heat. In body-breaking beats. Simmer and touch. A balance of ideals and strained contrition. Reach the roots the edge the limits the outflow the pouring of neutrality. Homeostasis. Strength. Friends. The quickening hot sea of hot data.

Rumbles in the strata – in the fossilized liquidity. The bones of ancient, potted men. Lion’s heads, stoned for centuries. Reconditioning the native, sucking the nitrates. Lie awake, listen to the sky outside roaring not quite night who cares unlock the door go upward rub the back of the maker. Feckless freckle-graphic links to the sky to the face of god to the artery of the universe to the very dexterity of it all.

Shout to the beach in the darkness – you can’t tell the horizon from the whitecaps and something lives out there, down there in the alien world no oxygen no logic no sympathy no concern for inalienable rights or memory. The rarest commodity in the tree. No fruit, no fall, no open mouth, no juice. It is forgotten by itself. It pisses itself away. It celebrates itself by blacking out. It dons makeup to hide from its creator.

Lovely. The wind, the washing away, the thrashing, the flood that cleanses, the paradigm that shifts, the book that rots, the pygmy organism that feeds. The ash, the sunlight, the knife wound. The deity that ignores. The congregation that adores. The breeding dunes of shifting belief. The code of meaning the web of power the strand of escape. Lovely. The hole that sucks the heart that melts the temperature that cools the promise that solidifies and the story that ends at just the right time. Lovely. Just lovely.

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