Uh, it wants me. Wheezing in my neck, dripping and slurping at my lobes, soaking my shoulders in its viscous mouth water, glaring at my stale carcass, grabbing at my feelings, all horny for my breath, ruining my wanton virtue. A many legged undead something that outstretches over the skies, flaking and propelling its warty scales into my forcibly unlocked, broken jaws. Discharging its reeking sick from gaping and spluttering orifices for it to come down on me in foul, oily rains. What a sight for knifed eyes. It stands and spans over all, for all the world to see its bitterness. Clasping its claws into volcanoes and crevasses, holding on for dear life, to immortalize the second in an era. Behind its murky mantle the atmosphere is ablaze, heaving intense vapors of amethysts and emeralds like a downpour over its horned and spoiled back. Dripping and spitting from its loins into our open wounds. Blended with the sour sting of its festering boils. It is wrapped around the globe for all to endure a more solemn wrath.
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There is a time when I feel this realm will cover the skies forever, pushing the sunlight out. Knowing the sun is my sole reason to live at times. A wicked panic leaps in my chest, ripping at the soft tissue and the brittle bones. Tearing and slashing its way to my weakness. My innards howl with despair. The desolate cloth drapes itself around my heart to smother my existence. But then it trickles and drizzles down until an infernal fog melts over everyone and everything. Impregnating all the pores of the earth with morbid dew. Clogging up all possibility of inspiration with every single stroke. It relieves the skies of its manifest demise but burns ever more invigorated with the new fuel of anguish. The helplessness of the spirit of man, who finds himself detained by a failure to seize the grandeur of essence. The everlasting space that lives between our mind and skin and all around and inside us, leaves no room for interpretation by a futile set of senses. It feels as if I’m trying to lift galaxies with a supple reed. A disproportionate attempt that somehow appears out of nothing as a remarkable and suddenly feasible prospect. The trick is to find the other angle. The one that bursts open every construction of dimension to explode in rapture. But more importantly, the willful abstraction to do so. Such is the bed of wonder. That is the awakening of the outer empire in which all importance loses its implications and big white, fist-like waves of undiluted harmony hammer down the walls of reluctance. Feeding a voracious, insatiable desire to see my doubts battered. A death of the narrow life by drowning my warring suspicions in the concept of ‘letting go’. It is all so far beyond us.