Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Tuchulcha the World-Eater

The Yin & Yang of World Hunger ~ David Revoy

Down between the parallel line phosphor-edge burn, walking perhaps an inaccurate description for forward movement, my wounds no longer raw but ache like a lost love in a dream of darkened rooms.

Overturned transposer drone mag-unit whining in the ozone grit, my teeth misaligned molars clash against the unity of my skull encasing dark after-images of the fact that we are all fucked.

You don’t have to be a soothsayer to taste the future’s entropic decay, leaves glow like coals as they reduce to skeletal remnants of screams from the nearby buildings.

Arms reach out in my general direction then retract from eye contact unwilling to face another soul-search at the hands of this inquisitor whose tattered camo-flesh stutters in staccato malfunction image-flashing scenes from yesterday’s version of the apocalypse.

Don’t judge me don’t question my belief circuits I know very well what I do.
Don’t suspend your disbelief if you don’t want to; I don’t care.
Don’t invest in demons if you’re not prepared to be possessed.
Don’t fuck with this apparition all clad in righteous anger and armed with cold abandon.

Down past the place where we used to talk, back before we lost that skill, before we buried it all in Lithium COLumbite-TANtalite and plastic, back before we forgot that in order to live we need to eat; in order to breathe we need to breathe.

Ghosts scatter in my force-field’s static roar, their eyes white un-pupilled but focused like vengeance on the possibility of just one last look at the screen that so recently fed their needs now blank but shiny still – a smile on a corpse.

Coming in too close to this here apparition I don’t advise, I’ll take your everything and add it to the yelling in my head, take your soulchip and anything else you’ve managed to cling to and I will laugh until I am able to piss myself once more.
I will channel this day with legs that won’t stop walking and arms that won’t stop taking whatever life comes within reach of gnarled hands blue-veined across tendons cantilevering those fingers remaining to fist or claw, tentacle-ing tactile dulled to sandpaper and possessed of automatically written tracts on the etiquette of mindless survival.

I am god I am totem-headed I am gravity I am everything you pretended wasn’t going to happen, everything that was already happening before you had the guts to imagine it, I walk between you and the possibility of a future – I am now visible and as unaccountable as ever.

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