Begin with a point. Out of nothing, from non-being, the potential, the possible. It happens.
She grows. We all come from there. We always have. Or so we think. Until the end there motion stops, mind blanks. Earth rest in mother-death, until next.
The points accumulate, line up. All is one, one being, in motion, alive and individual, taking particular form, human-born. This body, air-fed. We sing, animals draw near. Red the blood, the planet to come. The gods rave red-eyed, hieroglyphic in their lust, counting down hours in the melodies of atomic nuclei, till kingdom come.
A flat plain stretches, far as the eye sees. The sex rises, life flows. A son is born, who drinks at the cutting river. He then chars wood, paints heroes at the outskirts of the arch aristocrats fields. His spirit hovers, a chemistry of years pyramiding to a logical culmination of computer dust.
Imagine solid space, all mass: this the meaning of death and degeneration: the hard earth, frozen in the glare of the reflecting moon. In this white light of the astral physis, mere men worship rocks, assembled, that is, into their constituent electromagnetic and commercial properties, for millennia equated with actual worth, for the work of industry, sci-tech and miniaturized truth
Finally, the dreaming begins. The inner vector does its energetic best to bring him back to life. Will his spirit catch the motion? He dreams of magma, awakes to the night-fire, the light-lush sky, moans "Father" and rolls sway, creating plush and pliant fictions until day. Then the cybernetic truth of his demonic knowledge dawns: he is a political creature, a heavy. But he needs an audience, a lover, a divine mirror. For millions of years his yellowing eyes have been waiting for the magic of your smile, the mythical splendor of your otherwise chaotic karma. You are meant for each other, to remake the world in your own inner images. You, too, are finally human.
© 1998 Syd
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