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.
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
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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