Remember back in the 50s when they'd record like Elvis singing YOU AIN'T NOTHIN BUT A HOUND DOG and then they'd turn the record over and reverse it and it was all NYERP NYERP NYERP NYERP NYERP and people were all like, "That is actually the voice of Satan coming from that song."
Have you ever waited for it? wondering whether it will come from outside or inside? Finally past the futile guesses at what might happen . . . now and then re-erasing brain to keep it clean for the Visit . . . yes wasn't it close to here? remember didn't you sneak away from camp to have a moment alone with What you felt stirring across the land ... it was the equinox . . . green spring equal nights . . . canyons are opening up, at the bottoms are steaming fumaroles, steaming the tropical life there like greens in a pot, rank, dope-perfume, a hood of smell . . . human consciousness, that poor cripple, that deformed and doomed thing, is about to be born. This is the World just before men. Too violently pitched alive in constant flow ever to be seen by men directly. They are meant only to look at it dead, in still strata, transputrefied to oil or coal. Alive, it was a threat: it was Titans, was an overpeaking of life so clangorous and mad, such a green corona about Earth's body that some spoiler had to be brought in before it blew the Creation apart. So we, the crippled keepers, were sent out to multiply, to have dominion. God's spoilers. Us. Counterrevolutionaries. It is our mission to promote death. The way we kill, the way we die, being unique among the Creatures. It was something we had to work on, historically and personally. To build from scratch up to its present status as reaction, nearly as strong as life, holding down the green uprising. But only nearly as strong.
Only nearly, because of the defection rate. A few keep going over to the Titans every day, in their striving subcreation (how can flesh tumble and flow so, and never be any less beautiful?), into the rests of the folksong Death (empty stone rooms), out, and through, and down under the net, down down to the uprising.
In harsh-edged echo, Titans stir far below. They are all the presences we are not supposed to be seeing - wind gods, hilltop gods, sunset gods - that we train ourselves away from to keep from looking further even though enough of us do, leave Their electric voices behind in the twilight at the edge of the town and move into the constantly parted cloak of our nightwalk till
Suddenly, Pan - leaping - its face too beautiful to bear, beautiful Serpent, its coils in rainbow lashings in the sky - into the sure bones of fright -
Don't walk home at night through the empty country. Don't go into the forest when the light is too low, even too late in the afternoon - it will get you. Don't sit by the tree like this, with your cheek against the bark. It is impossible in this moonlight to see if you are male or female now. Your hair spills, silver white. Your body under the gray cloth is so exactly vulnerable, so fated to degradation time and again...
Comments
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN
SHE AIN'T NO HUMAN BEING
wubsy
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
Only nearly, because of the defection rate. A few keep going over to the Titans every day, in their striving subcreation (how can flesh tumble and flow so, and never be any less beautiful?), into the rests of the folksong Death (empty stone rooms), out, and through, and down under the net, down down to the uprising.
In harsh-edged echo, Titans stir far below. They are all the presences we are not supposed to be seeing - wind gods, hilltop gods, sunset gods - that we train ourselves away from to keep from looking further even though enough of us do, leave Their electric voices behind in the twilight at the edge of the town and move into the constantly parted cloak of our nightwalk till
Suddenly, Pan - leaping - its face too beautiful to bear, beautiful Serpent, its coils in rainbow lashings in the sky - into the sure bones of fright -
Don't walk home at night through the empty country. Don't go into the forest when the light is too low, even too late in the afternoon - it will get you. Don't sit by the tree like this, with your cheek against the bark. It is impossible in this moonlight to see if you are male or female now. Your hair spills, silver white. Your body under the gray cloth is so exactly vulnerable, so fated to degradation time and again...
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis
i get so angry sometimes i just punch plankton --Klinotaxis