Down To Earth

 

 

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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