14th September 2009
Hybrids my loan gunman. Slow sinking dusky shades ripping the sky with colours. Shake into the dawn.
Crack the cups together with a great ROAR of bestial enjoyment while we toast the end of the line. The end of rational thought as we know it. Run the finger down the blade and lick. Paint with the crimson declaration that we’re still kicking. Paint a sign: “We are still here. We are here ’till we can leave no more mark. ‘Till our vital ink has run dr…” drips and a prone body. Somehow forming a final exclamation point.
Sulphur spews. Hah maybe God’s angry, or maybe he’s shaking shit up again. A divine, an omnipotent shit issued from the body beyond all bodies, and yet of the same image. The sulphur spews, and eventually forms the land and gives the sea a platform. And the foreign fish sit at the surface, and fly in their Other space. No man’s land. A land for no man. Nymphs pull him to his demise. Slowly the surfaces rise.
Act like it doesn’t matter, and in the end it won’t. You’ll be confused and confounded, but in the end your half-remembered solitary acts will melt into the duvet, and beside your lover’s head all will be forgiven. Try to be heartless, it’ll still catch up to you. Try to be oblivious and it will frame your intentions long after; a picture in the museum. The guide will give context, humanity, and a gesture to the next on the wall.