A spool of thread, until we’re dead, unwinds in time.
A man with tusks, appears at dusk, he’ll slash your price.
Imagine the wind, Creature. A grassy hill. A flower. An ant. Nothing too revolutionary. A death. A life. Our death. Our life. You know – same old shit.
See, Creature, all truth is transient. All life is forever. All crap is ultimate. Every day is your life. All sickness is a tiny miracle. All miracles happen sometime. All brains circle the center. But everybody knows that.
Flip it. The center is it. We must praise it. We must get drunk on it. We must not take it for granted. We must hunt for, grunt for, beg for and receive it. We must beat it up. And not everybody knows that.
So join us!
For the answer,
The paratroop oblivion,
For the nine, the ten,
The storm of breathing,
The sheeping of wolves’ clothing.
For the life within,
The marvelous malcontents
Coiled in the corner.
Yes: The breakneck mimbles the mazy chasers the slipknap jappers.
No: Anger canker linger stinker cracker smacker hello or goodbye. Please.
We: Heroes, dreamers, dreamt up, smoky. Lapping at clouds, impaling and receiving the eye, the heart, other blood-filled companions.
Us: Hungry, barely engorged, searching yet chucking away, roadside nibblers and twisting lispwisps. Never getting enough. Together.
So thank you, Creature.