The New Gods

[Sepia]

(Sorry, Jack Kirby!)


Ayn Rand was sitting in her chair, smoking. She had this ghastly wheeze about her, everything she did was hard for her, she took nothing for granted but she complained about everything. She had a nasty cough and her voice was like a newborn baby horse being dragged by her mother through a field of barbwire and broken glass. She was death, personified. She looked at you with her beady eyes, she analyzed you like you were an insect, something you felt like.

Then came Maggie along. She was a breeze of air from the sea, drifting past the oil and the docks, over the power plant, soot covering every crevice and she felt like that sensation you have sometimes when you're about to sneeze but you don't and your senses are heightened and then she's there in front of you, old ma Thatcher. She never saw you as an insect, she believed in you. She saw the clay and she could form it and she would make you something she could use, she was an old king, reborn.

Old King Mark on the other hand, he pardoned Tristan and Iseult and sent them into the world. He saw the future and he was not a part of it but he did what we used to do back then in Casablanca, we thought for all of us before we escaped into the night, building a tower of ivory and watching the sun rise every day, throwing gold over the fields, showing the reflections of the beautiful reality, we sat and mused over it over a cup of coffee and a cigarette in the morning hours, everyone else asleep and we wanted something to change us so bad so we thought it did until we blinked and there was only

Richard Nixon practicing his contingency speech for the dead astronauts, those brave men who died for us, died for what we thought was the death of god but rather the birth of another god and there is a man behind the layers, behind the mask, behind the powder, behind the skin, behind the blood, behind the bones, behind the soul

As Elvis sings of it and there's a commotion in the streets, someone in a future telling the past that he stole it, he stole it and put a white face on it, something they'd learn for the next time, when hiphop was brought upon the masses and through time we hear his hips shake, we hear the pill bottle and the fat slapping itself and we hear a man who saw Hunter S Thompsons edge and went flying over it with a bike made out like a unicorn, clad in white gold, glinting in the sun

Like Hunter did. There, this version of James Dean driving more desperately, he knew the edge, went past it and observed it, it was the axis of reality as Horselover Fat describes his reality and we see the world from so many different angles and we see the laser, superimposing rome onto los angeles

and the sun is climbing, the sun is coming up over the horizon before it all turns black, old man Koestler will have his darkness for we always understand martyrs after some time has lapsed

and the sun is climbing

[Batty Kissinger]

I dig this immensely! Thanks for sharing!

[Murmur]

Very nice!  Love the descriptive writing!

[Jenne]

*sighs*  Mmmmm...