Thursday, June 23, 2016

DECLARATION

The seed of Paradise is a prescient bullet lodged in the heads of a secret Elect-- sculpted, emerald ammunition fired from a long, smooth gun, but touched off the wrong way in time. Can't you see Eden up there, hanging away from the sun, hiding in the moon's brown face 'til she blinks-- the bold brows of her vacuum desert flashing green once a few bare, aching years? Some of us stare, necks crooked; arches numb in the dirt, just for once to see her flash under that jewelled light-- never even knew how long we had waited for the seminal arc-- now with pens held erect and ready like well-ordered ashigaru, awaiting the collective suck of breath; daring a desperate ecstasy; awaiting the blow of a hard breeze and the wave of shoulders slumped in retreat as she buries herself in the sea, unloving. The ink leaks out of us and spreads in clouds. Everything we are denied becomes scripture; becomes law.

There is a zebra crossing between the land and the sky-- a static ferry for the surrogate Garden, with clods of clutching saints mangling the duality of stripe itself, up there. Don't you swear you see it? Orbital Heaven. But irradiated pilgrims never survive the chicken strut jaunt across the street-- they explode like little pot pies and bleed; bleed out in the pedwalk to the stars. Extra-vehicular homicide, choking the upladder with hunks of mystery meat and depressurized fluidic foam, forming a fog of mutilated, motile occlusion. One day we will see a ring forming-- a halo born against the sky-- a sigh-- a just-slight reflection sometimes in chalkmark blue on royal blue-- the frozen pulp of the trudging, stumbling sages hung up like a neck; hung up like a thumbnail pressed cruelly into skin, and not only a few of their earnest tears. We've all got to cry sometime in the absence of God.

We, like them, want our holy pilgrimage too-- but there is no here to be there from. Why no summit, cloaked in panhead thunder or sheathed in shame with seraphim executioners stalking the pathways up? Our world is rather like some grande dame's guest bed-- we've got to sleep to get anything right during salon, even if we'll abandon every film halfway through. We know how each one ends. Yet through the walls, we are awoken by the woofing of perhaps more sensible apes. They bluster and yelp about some foreign mercy, some safe currency, metrics ever threatening to welcome us home, so that we might do some beast's bidding before the last. But we've settled in so snugly, heads uncovered, to honor the coming years of quiet blame.

Ahh, but the emerald eye; her emerald flash-blush; her blazing emerald bush-- a glint within a glint within crackling fiction-- films finished after all! FIN-- a hidden function, burgeoning with nested nests-- crimson birds against the slate-green, cupped hands of the junipers; recursion with a terminal sigma-- see its bounds? A rounded square of a sagging formality bent toward love, both hammer-dull and scaplel-sharp, with no silent Father subpoenaing the pinioned lovers to the pinnacle of his lap! I walk by mistake on emerald feathers, crozzing zebras of Turkey Street, Robin Row, Cardinal Circle, Crow Place-- they're backhand birds down there, sick of this age and sick of me, always prodding at their eggs. I might break them, like every thing else I touch.

They know that, in fact, I am the Big Liar presiding over their air. I'm the one up here in this bullshit Garden, watching all the sin spread like urine. I piss upon them influences, watering the lawn from high above. My couch is that spun mausoleum of huge, cool leaves, dripping stones from which to drink sweet water, aromatics in the bleedproof air a balm for breathing in. I'm the sole occupant of this jungle-gem-globe-- a preaching, telepresent sham. I project my simulacra around the pisscrack mudball below, laughing and pranking and spooking the fools to try, oh blessed ones, just try to climb high... high. I've mined Jacob's Ladder with X-ray lasers, fragmentation submunitions, chaff charges, and bladed, geo-synchronous catapult traps, all too matte to make out when I switch on the night.

I'm the five-fold whiplash as knotted serpents in me uncoil-- a shrapnel bomb cored with fissile vertebrae. I'm the final flash, neutrino green through shut up eyes-- climax scream of the shuddering moon--

I've been a long time coming.

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