People with whom we spend our formative years will be the last to know us, the last to acknowledge their judgement of a seed, and the last to see flowers in full bloom. We may require the entire world’s approval before we get theirs. Fuck it. Who needs ‘em?
They’ll arrive camouflaged as chameleons, lights off after dusk, tip toeing low horses taking the low road, unacknowledged sneaking things which sink in cesspools of hatred, bile taking pride in the progress of decay, electro lit entropic malaise, sodium skeptic’s salted shoulders read their own feigned fortunes, wax wings melted by the setting sun making fools gold green by the demon’s brine. My olive branch thrown into rapids returns with hook, line, sinker and table set for two, sliced body loaf dissolved in vinegar; my wine made sour and my gesture squeezed and choked into olive oil. I tried to make peace with sharks too, but cold blooded predators eat peaceful things, you know, and after all, we all have to eat.
Where I grew up in that lacklust leachy hellscape called Allah fucking Bama, they don’t just want to chastise you, but to destroy you, to tear you apart, to rip you off your cloud and pull you down into the mud puddles where they lay their eggs and their larvae spawn from the muggy, still water swamps with the bloodsucking insects, for all earth’s poison is born of blood, of the earth which latches onto your limbs and forces its way into uncovered orifices, to suck dry your lifeblood and leave the residue of their insidious hate inside you in such a way that it multiplies like cancer on the soul, that you may also spread its sick cruelty unto the great infinity, that it may spread like wildfire as plague upon humanity for which the only antidote is awareness: toxic ire’s antivenin grown under the tree of knowledge burning out of its insipid plateau upon which the virgin marygoround carousels in place flashing moving images from the big plastic mountain on screens in front of each horse like carrots tied to strings, each lone rider believing she and he are moving forward unto the breach, lest no man or woman move an inch in the shadow of the big plastic mountain, and only through the most vigilant awareness which misses not a heartbeat in dread or death, becomes a weapon more pointed and more powerful than their hate or the allowance of their hate through apathy and insipidness, awareness becomes a weapon which shreds the rank, foul intentions from their putrified mouths before ever being given the chance to become ideas, slicing their words back into the infinite pieces from which all things arise and all things return, for that great awareness and that great infinity know that we are one, and with that knowledge, hate burns into the setting sun, and with that knowledge, love is won.
Aum, men.