[Suzerain of Sheol]

"Let's try to write a prose poem! There's no way that could possibly go wrong!"

Every Third Star {M}

I was standing on the bedrock of sanity, my own imperative, where I watched the very best of us decide that they have had enough.

Staggering off to the roadside, a glance ahead revealed a billion fixtures of retarded genes waiting with endless patience, the vista of all they could become silent like a strangled orgasm. A reverse-parapsychological insistence to exist. Their petrified rioting for birth was, however, all at once, in that moment, thrown aside like the carcass of a foetus who should have been the Messiah.

Shoveled into the mass grave. Not worth it.

Here inject a hallucination of the trumpets of salvation.

And there, down the battered old trail, past the dried-out corpses of wanna-be Gods, they found their retreat from the race. A place of reflection with the self absented, home to the unnatural reunion with Nature; Nirvana for the living dead.

Down, and down into the basement, the hovel of that place called Hell, every step more eager, ignoring the stench of those who'd come before. It was suffering bliss, shooting up with fake souls, the isolated conscience huffing the murders of things that would never be people, a desolation rite under the suicidal sun and the meaningless moon.

In dilating, vibrating time I watched the last delusion of the human spirit prove itself out of existence. No astral chords thrummed, no desperate angels pleaded for a cure. Just a lonely mind evaporating with the meaning of the cosmos. I got to see the unraveling of history, the disintegration of philosophy and science, the opening of all the empty tombs.

But the ground had begun to separate, shattering objectivity, suddenly awash in the acid colors of determination and intent, the electrocuting mores of the procreating mammal now shackling a love of knowledge to the skeleton of a rejected conception.

To become this incarnate, involuntary redemption, the slave-state of the brain cycled through the infinite in every instance, whimpers for ego destruction smothered by the dopamine scarf. The self-rape of the will impregnating imagination with purpose.

Every second of every moment of every senseless demarcation of the vanishing present a panesthetic stare to the abyss, tasting, hearing, getting off to schizophrenic sight that can't conceive monsters. Pinned-open eyes and a Chelsea-smile basking in the solar holocaust, the natal instincts of this embryo affirming that cancer will kill it first. And that's just fine.

Hauled forth from the depths on an anchor from the singularity, this revenant fish staring into the erased face of a necromancer wearing the crown of God, tortured back into its own resemblance.

A microbiologicial grandfather paradox voiding consent to continue.

Misery, alas, had lost its mystery.