(no subject)

[apiphile]

he wasn't writing about politics, elizabeth

so the thing is that
hm no
the thing is
listen--
what.

all your greasy television-shackled minds,
your giddy proposals and narrative overlords
that sick thing you call 'family'
and all those humanoid guardians
you placed on your imagination, yeah?

that stuff.

when you punched me throat-hard into the defensive walls of race propaganda
drew gods on every flat surface
you said:
the only thing that is real is that which is human
love and death, mother and daughter,
honour and war, beget and beget,
you said that all that was real
was the garden in which you grow
more clones.

and that all else is a luxury
painted on the bare bones of real truth
which is made in the womb and carries
this sickness forward;

spirals or lines, it's all the same
there must be more people to give the world an name.

and you will not put on other shoes
and walk other ways
unless they promise to glorify the same.

it's 'superfluous' to gaze on the stars and be humbled,
'you really want god', if you're asking what
can be seen through the eyeless minds which swell in the sleeping dark;
told a story and convinced yourself it was the world--

now-furious that there's anything
beyond the reaches of the candle flame.

you are a static map of probability that has happened all at once is happening and in a hundred thousand million universes never happened. truth is too vast to fit into your mouth and so you scream with it instead. bite me with it. breathe lies into my lungs to stifle any prospect of better understanding. as if i could.

salt grains in the ocean, we pass through
the bodies of ourselves and twist on;
a temporal being in a physical field;
glued together by chance.

and still the fist of importance batters
into the face of fact; make more meat or else none of this matters,
make more meat,
staple on memories of lies
and call it a man--

light streaks across the void and strikes your shallow thoughts
one night you'll wake in forgotten sweat
as your neurons remember what you cannot:
the crushing crucifying vastness of everything that has ever existed and ever will
the silences and the darknesses and the colours that go unseen by your hooded eyes
they remember
every fragment of you churned up in the furnace next door

you beat the pillow and weep for more meat
and curse the language we share
as you try again to violate into my mind
the idea that there is something
which i am
for.