Transition of the soul
Slow morphing of eternity
Void sounds to capture the downhill tides.
With words, bollocks, cards and postage stamps
Migratory birds to sit on this unfathomed migraine
New regimes, new kingdoms, new relics
I lie. Still motions create pictures of sullen sultriness
To roar. To rumble…..To fade out beyond this faint music
Definite hollow finites. Lights and the photonic madness
stand near your bedpost. You are the lion now. You need to puke to survive.
And apocalypse shoots its arrows as missiles as you hide your apologetic fangs.
Your story is tragic. They needn’t know.
Your muscular jawbones are weary. Too much cud chewed. Indignant indigestion.
Your mother won’t mail you the names of the medicines anymore.
Your lover won’t call you, coz you have no telephone or lover.
You’re a bird.
But please don’t try to kiss the decay. There’s moss on its skull.
The skeleton prefers to hide behind the infinite layers and sublayers of tissues, muscles, corpuscles through bluish veins, saintly gossips, smartassed repartees, bright skins, empty coaches, divine farts and pig-eyed toads.
Let it hide, like guilt and lies and scars. Let it be. Let yourself be.
The cold fire burns the stage. Don’t stand. Mouth your lines. Play your part.
Dear puppet, you aren’t free, and no one else shall play your trumpet for you.
No elephant shall greet you or no clown shall laugh at you in the circus.
You’re the yo-yo now, baby. You have no ammunition, you sweet naked one.
So never ever forget the strings. They bind. No one’s free. Be the illusioned spectator, and the chaotic spectacle, all at the same time. It’s simple. Just keep breathing.
Roots need desires. And hence families and familiar operas to quench the primal hunt.
Worships and tribal axioms to make the axis. Thus, the centripetal won’t throw you off into the dark,
And the centrifugal won’t pull you in into the dark. Everything must balance to meet the demands of the great Zero. You must be fixed for the great Zero. You are Her sacrifice. So your you needs to enter the kingdom of Her womb. Her temple trembles. Her altar seeks your blood. Hear the bells. She is thirsty, the Zero-Mother. She is thirsty. Hear the bells. She smells your blood from all the wells, fissures and holes in the ground of Your Lightworld that lead to Her Darkworld. Fear Her. Fear the Zero. That’s the closest to Truth you can ever get…
Observe the slow synthesis.
Now, you are Meursault.