With the blood still draining from the weapon after she had luxuriated with me, and then the ceremony of her eyes - some strange flower with endless exits and ever beaconing whispers promising heavens beyond. I lost the track of me, the strain of returning proving to much burden upon the road of my feet and the Limbo of all, where memory merges imagination, where the unreal yet proves true, but alas the real and its base clay pulls the substance from all dreams and wakes all dreamers to the provocation that sleep dismantles, but ever and ever upon this substance shaping the wonder of return breaks the storm of deployment and the hot make of a moment can push the enormity of time to its corners to conspire its ruin of the load bearing walls of the soul. I am an epic hero stranded among the rubble of existing, I am the narrator of god, the forgotten one called upon to expose the chosen one of his fraud.
Oh, now back upon this business of clocks - machine knowledge of time - soulless marker of moments. Enough of the now, more of the becoming - narrator of god, voice of man, ever mutating destinies of ever unknowing nows. Let a man be an artist of his destiny - but where does this leave the soul who’s creative embryo was aborted by a world weary mother. Oh, the earth is a weeping widow for such a man, I put a tear under my pillow on all nights for such a man. I am such a man. Yet reborn in fits and starts, and hopeless longings ultimately supplanted by hopeless doings. Where is the cat when the mouse needs him? Where was god when the serpent entered Eden? Where was something when nothing took possession of all? Where was my narrator when I stood ready to dictate the chronicles of my being? No more; questions of seething rhetoric, merely. Perhaps the dumb diligence of toil is its own answer. I toss the head of my enemy to the waste and breath the dark medicine of the morning.
I step to the morning ritual of bathing, imbibing the living water thru the portals of my flesh - a furious baptism upon my sleepy sorrows - I can’t separate, I can’t find room, room to wreak my worlds with my bare hands, room to bleed without bleeding, room to create a new night that will spurn day and all day workings until the light from every sun that ever pulled a planet from its path and bathed it in its tedious heat stops its guts and spills all its light into the mouth of the darkness. Sorrows - I can’t separate, I can no more separate the dictionary of my sorrows from the words of my sorrows than I can Homer from the Odyssey, the page, the words, the reader, the Muse, my Muse, endless rivers of hungry seas. Hunger, hunger, hunger! The growling of my stomach is a GOD DAMN beast that lives in the guts of my own blood-running sewers! Hunger! the common theme of every chapter of the living and every epithet of the dead. But until you are truly hungry you will never be truly fed. For now, we are but pathetically nursed. For now, this is where the going goes. For now this is where the infinite pauses. Where the hungry horizon hangs its vampire moon to gather the wishes of the faithful which it then douses with the tears of the lost. I cannot hear anything I’m seeing, over the ubiquitous howling of this growling.
My narrator started this whole false narrative while I was still under the narcosis of sleep. Now I can’t find room to separate. It has lied to me, it may have lied to you. I can’t read what it has written, only what I have typed. I know it is uncomfortable with facts - preferring truth. The difference being that extra chromosome of bias (it is a Z chromosome, I believe). Meanwhile my own monument of moments is dry heaving his breakfast (monument of moments, it likes that phrase) while I admit no appetites. Apathy wielding the largest portion of all intrinsic appetites thereby turning hunger to art. Oh, the epic narcissism.
Now I shall go forth to the world, the world - that ubiquitous stranger - I shall go forth and milk my hurt, perhaps dress my lackey in livery. I will sabotage all these time-lined nowheres busy recording every soul stealing moment by living my life in unmeasured sequences; volumes, chronicles, mumbled epics go orbiting the star of my being, unfurnished worlds no man will know. And down, down into some waiting night they will one day sink me to the bottom of my story where I will live only in the static of yet to be broadcast signals of unborn civilizations. Nowhere is an hypothesis, it is the sum of all somewhere’s.
On the cusp of catharsis, on the brink of banishment, banishment from all windows of wonder, from all sighs of vision, all racing pulses of desire, all prostrate humilities, before dancing divinities, that display their requisite existence to only those who doubt it, only those who know the soul of the world has been given over like a virgin to a volcano.
Thinking - If I am not allowed to pursue freely my salvation then I shall just sit patiently for the rapture of my doom. I know it would be much more romantic I know it would be a much better story just to let our hero go down his drain but if I do, who will tell this story?
And now; oh, again the evocation of hunger can focus all distance to the petty span of a man’s moment,
a butterfly on a bull’s back, infinitesimal longings that argue themselves out of existence, that pardon themselves of de facto crimes in an instantaneous shame and glory and you capitulate with a killers staccato limp, with the fear of falling apart the only thing holding you together.