The definitions arose when the over crowding became problematic.
The faction’s ferocity grew… all plotted responses.
Once the doors were armed they were of little use.
When hunger strikes you will know.
When air fails, you will know.
When I care… I try too hard
When not I do not bother
Definition becomes the blur
It wasn’t even his smile, just a wrinkling of the nose
Care set in motion
In mode
A lovely exhibition
Something new
Something clean.
Elbowroom became a necessity, misery became the norm and survival became a game played every day by everyone. Even the lassitude of our habits tells a tale of intervention- then doom. Every node of the question points to the same answer.
What once was a joyous gift is now a pendulous torpor, a negative definition, a flower revealed to be shit… What was once a pleasure shared by all has now become a sanctity of derision, a hamlet of stupidity, a question mark, a redefinition, a re-recognition, a re-map, a pro-positive U-turn, one event in time, a poetry in motion, the beginning of the end.
Your shoes became mine in the obscene swap of trusts. I held the baton to my heart with a need to pass it on as soon as the race was running. There was no finishing line in sight.; it was a race of trust, a race of faith, a race of necessity. No one wanted to run or win or lose. The race was simply in the running and the style that it was run is up to your self.
As in all else, the lowest common denominator inhabited the pre dominance. These unwary contributors, blind to their common doom, blind to the fact that their similarity was a sentence to death, To copy, to emulate any other, caused their chances of survival to sway into the negative. It was not until the majority had fallen that the obvious became clear, individual thinkers realizing the horror of the fools impending fate.
The cull started with the food, it finished with the water, the common that could not be ignored. All clarity became blurred, colours melded into each other, reds yellows and blues cancelling each other out. Observation only defined by the viewer, each version a conspiracy of the same source. Once the bastion of fact had become nothing more than opinion, the opinion blurred just as the colours had, into folklore and fear. The burden of decadence weighing heavily on all shoulders, impossibility becomes sanity and the race to the end was being run.
I knew the crash was going to come long before we had entered the car, I think we all did. The conditions were too perfect for the oblivion not to happen. The silent sky glowered down on the unsuspecting, the laughter was as false as a politicians promise, the silence burned like a cocked gun awaiting the disposal. The inevitability was mounting day after day, yet the fools continued to play with their individuality, they continued to consider themselves lucky. The feast was being devoured despite the food depleting, the energy consumed despite the source waning.
This abstraction is getting hard to conceive. I am in a place where nothing grows unless planted by a machine and tended by a machine. The people walk or jog in a zombie-esque manner, knowing that there is somewhere a hidden purpose but not knowing where or how to find it, instead of human company to sustain them they seek identity and repetition, victims of their tainted ego. Deprived of natural human assets they forget so quickly who they are. Their animal grace fades into the black sand, their pride replaced with regulation, their truth determined by somebody else’s lies. Everything is believed and contrived; there is no room for perspective or division. Any soul that considers them unique from the pack is re-buffed and if not re-programmable they are removed. The status quo being God and must be obeyed, difference is portrayed as illusion and illusion is defined as contemplative action which is illegal and punished by transportation to the ether. All art is simplified to the lowest content, purely to act as a shadow to divide the white from the black, a shadow worshipped for the law of simplicity it offers to the cattle masses, happy to obey, happy to be alive, happy not to question.
So this is our heaven. This fools paradise where intellect is considered to have a negative impact, where straight lines rule for mile upon mile. Perpendicular is the only upright and love is an action rather than a feeling. Regulation rules. Nature’s subversion is almost complete.
The curvature of the slide steepens and the speed of the fall increases until vertically down I drop, beyond the limits of the safety wall, beyond the regulatory signs that say go no further. The tempo too quick to stop the dance, all that is left is to calculate the risk, over the precipice, over the cliff, the cold water and the murderous rocks loom faster and faster. I look down between my feet and miraculously see a thin gap in the sharp igneous shards that are desperate to rip the flesh from my bones. Can I remember how to fly, can I remember how to guide myself using my arms as wings and my pointed toes as blades to cut the air to suit my fall to drop myself into the chasm of razors barely wide enough to slip this boy through. The quickest lesson ever learned, or was it a memory recalled from my pre-human self, from when this skill was my own. I dropped like a guided missile, like Jonathon seagull, like an Olympic diver, through the split in the rock, through this sentence of death and into the cold clear water, my fall immediately broken, now sinking in the amniotic fluid, re-born but to float to the surface to the life giving sun.
Birth within life, transcendence, truth discovery, and immobility treated with the rap of the suns knuckles on the eyelids, the awakening. To fear the fall is as to die in life. To believe that all is known and done is as to suffocate on your own breath, it is to drown in your own pool of stagnant piss; it is to ‘accept’.
Hope becomes disbelief, truth a lie. When all is fluid then the transcendence can begin, words are not required and this litany of prose need never be written. The golden key fits the lock, the door swings open, the atomic flash of understanding fires. Life continues…
I watch their perfection like a ghost watches its living counterpart. Their gaudy colours splashed all over like hippy shit. The automatons amble down their heavenly boulevard. They squeal like pigs under the swaying palms. They sleep on silken sheets and dream of dirt. Their empathy strikes a chord that sounds dully on the palate.
Is the detail in the detail or is the detail in the distance he thought as the waves licked his heels as the tide turned, their tongue swept the horizon broken only by his harsh rocky profile.
On the other side of the water are the worthy, the deserved, those born not into the comfortable lie; they were born into a very different place.
The tale of the complex becoming a simplex always ends bitterly. Is it possible to pick apart the threads of this embroidery? This delicate, ugly tapestry we have woven generation after generation offering their part to the evolving pattern. Such a fragile complicate as this must have a secret safety mechanism knotted in. I cannot see it myself… maybe it is I?
What are we if not messengers carrying the message of our making?
We slake our beds of all they are worth and carry forth our word.
Do we shame our relatives of old?
Do we blame them for this taking?
Are they proud for all we have done?
Of all the medals we have won, and lost and won and lost
The springtime bulbs that push their heads
Chemical imbalance, passive aggressive games taught and played.
Trepidation is the ally of the survivor. Our blasé bubble cushions from the hurt- if you can afford the cost. The equivalent could be this blue planets atmosphere, our comfort zone for the now. I often wonder at how easily this bubble could be burst, our sanctuary from the vacuous eternity of space dispersed. She is a fragile being our Gaia.
Could this delicate mix of oxygen and carbon dioxide be popped like a balloon? Deflated like the Sunday afternoon stratosphere tourists running out of gas, the internal pressure drop vacuum packs the planet into eternity, a slow strangling implosion the pressure drops and our existence collapses like the last breath of the collapsing lung tasting the sweet air for the last time.
Imprisonment, confinement, desecration by force, pre-meditated conspiracy comes true.
Symbiosis.
We can not fail like this, we cant drop our shields for the last battle or throw down our Tasers for the comfort of some poorly developed food stuff squeezed from the udders of a life that does not know why it is.
Grow, growth, horticulture, pure multi-culture, the spattered seed of Darwin’s tale will take back what it is owed. But first to dine with the devils spawn and dance his dance from dusk till dawn and feel his wrath and sup his broth, but all is not lost, for the seeds they are a planted.
Is it love we should be growing? Sowing our seed left and right. Should we rely on quantity over quality? Will the manipulation of the necessary requirements throw our orbit deeper into the inanity, the insanity we currently nurture?
To which haven should we fly with our soft bellies, with our retarded wisdom and distance from the natural? Should we comport ourselves to cells and share nothing but our anger, confined, desecrated? Could we ever really know who we really are, where our true purpose lies?
Should we embrace the war, accept the facts as defined by the great Genghis Khan or Stalin or Hitler or Bush or Pol Pot?
Should this be the last time I can write about tranquility? Of a mothers love for her son, the melodic purring of the chatter between them, one a synonym to the other, or of the father to his daughter, his low voice creating a protective shield around the family, or the wood pigeon content with its repetitive tone, singing that no harm will come this morning?
The babes dance in the water, finding new moves to teach, new freedoms to reach. One blue, one yellow, cells splitting the way they should, nothing is wrong here, there is no fear.
The young warriors appear, practicing their art in harmless games, showing off their ballerina’s bodies to the stars, their flowers to the bees.
She was living on the edge, her fake smile cracking into a grimace at the mere mention of the word, that brave countenance crumbling as she remembers her recent past and projects her fate to come, unpracticed, unknown territory but for her friends that had suffered the same. What was the advice she had given them?
Would it work for her?
Every purpose has a reason; every reason has a heredity born from need. One of the inevitable consequences of this syndrome is to build a family with no sense of need. Our modern society siphons from the top down, this is the way of western free market capitalism, this theory is o.k providing that there is an inexhaustible supply of products and that these products serve a useful purpose to those consuming them. When this balance tips this system fails. It becomes the luxury of the wealthy at the expense of the poor. The wealthy become more exploitative and the poor become more wretched, the status quo does not exist and whilst we play these games of children we bleed ourselves dry.
Time is of the essence. Time is the only gold. As each human realizes and understands the exponential collapse of time, as their skin sags and their eyes fail they equally draw on the wisdom of experience and they soften to absorb the blow. They know that to stretch the skin is not as to stretch the soul and that the fearless warrior must take its place and stand affront the roar and lay his sword down to the light and exist this way no more…
I know I am on my own now, unique ferocious, fearful.
I know I am unity sewn up in skin.
I know the machine.
I know the knot.
Where to oil and where to cut,
My sanctity lies without
On the open plains
Riding the storms.
I know my future lies within
The bosom of my family
My children and my pupils
They who will one day teach me all.
When my soul blows like a seed across the snow I will know.
We float, we find, we live we die...
Where once the proud cockroach took its place on its planet, is now a drying damp stain on the concrete, another layer of satisfaction scorched deep into some child’s conscience
Another fear allayed.
