1.
In
the dark aftermath of returning to ground,
our
eyes gouged out and our mouths parched,
nothing
made sense but blindness and thirst.
Stumbling,
raw-tongued, we followed
only
the urgent call of need,
the
path of simple requisites;
felt
out with the roots of our feet,
the
seeds of our bellies,
the
hunger of our sex.
Smooth
and soft to callous fingers,
we
were seduced into complacency,
into
loving our godless estate.
To
be filled, rested, sheltered;
nothing
more was required,
nothing
more requested.
In
the darkness of fucking, we were drawn
to
the perilous edge of the sublime.
We
loved the danger of sex. The
entrapment.
The
rent flesh of remembering.
The
once upon a time of atonement.
It
made our defilement all the more ecstatic.
In
the darkness we burrowed down into the ground,
down
deep into the moist torpid soil,
through
graveyard bones and dense humus,
dead
roots and forgotten coins;
through
the flaccid vacuous yoni
of
the slain hunter goddess.
Here,
within the rotted womb,
the
corpses of gralloched deer and raped swallows;
a
landscape of rusted slippers, creeping ivy,
pools
of menses, broken mirrors.
Down, we burrowed; rooting out
worms and small crustaceans, crunching
stones
in greedy teeth, feeding coarse bellies,
with no thought of nutrition or
digestion:
only of filling holes.
2.
When
the canvas of paradise has rotted
and
all pigment is bled grey
nothing
remains but holes:
holes that scream to be fed,
holes that scream to be filled -
filled
or defiled
slobbering
to polished fantasies
of
candyfloss clouds and shredded glass,
distilled
toxins and pornographic gloss,
mutilated
dreams and Dresden fire...
Love
plus fear equals
an
impossible equation.
There are factories spewing out
cleverly
packaged indiscrimination
for
insatiable consumption.
In this world of holes, they are the new church:
their
mantras mesmerise and stupefy -
a
universal barbiturate, casting its grey shadow
in
a dazzle of triptane technicolour...
and
we are all willingly seduced and deceived.
Holes
know only themselves: they cannot conceive
of
that which contains them.
Holes
know only their pain,
and
the constant unfulfilling filling that dulls the pain.
In
drugs and sex and television,
in
eating and drinking,
in
constant consumption, we fill
without
filling,
the
empty places in our hearts and heads:
obeying
the cruel demands
of
the fascist in our bellies;
the
steel clad Mosely,
the
brown-shirted bastard
with
the number of the beast
tattooed
inside its eyes.
There
is no empathy in need:
need
will gladly fuck anyone over for a quick fix.
You
and I, we learned
the
junked out inhumanity of needing:
the
chemistry of desperation.
We
knew the seed that transformed
baker into butcher,
civilian into warlord,
artist into antichrist:
we
knew it in our veins;
we
knew it in the choked arteries
of
our reason for being.
Having
fallen from the impossible dream of flight,
we
bought into the supermarket of night.
Cruelty
became us, with rarefied ease:
it
slipped into our skins,
like
a ky jellied cock into a barren cunt.
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