Author Topic: Clearance sale  (Read 1031 times)

Sepia

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Clearance sale
« on: October 02, 2009, 04:52:39 pm »
To show the sailors where they'd die, where they'd drown upon the breaking waves, sounds of sirens washing into their ears as the water would climb inside their lungs and telling them as they die with the lighthouse in view and the immortal sirens on your ears is the only way they could end it, the breaking of the hearts they'd found in different ports, they as us, caght in the life, the monotony and meaning of it all, the discernment of our experiences and the question that always rears its head, what do we do with it, where do we speck our glasses, paintings and faces, where is the life contorted to the degrees we see in floaters turned on the back?

We want to fight our way through life for we've read enough of the old-schoolers to believe that the struggle is eternal, that it builds us, we are founded on the seeping silent grey flesh, decaying into the oceans. We bite our teeth and some of us tell us to take pause, to wait for mother nature to heal before we slaughter it further but there is comfort knowing that when we end, the wounds we opened will heal, it will all be very different and what is dead will not come back, we will not be zombies eating dodo brains, for we left a mark and we are not masters and this esoteric knowledge is inside us all, some call it angelic, others want it pinned on the inverted god down below but this is us, fighting our way through it, wading kneedeep in what we think is blood but mud is thicker and we strive to leave a mark, to let some instance of history tell our tale but we will never be masters. We will never conquer our life like we will never conquer the planet we inhabit.

We will still hear chefs rave about ortolan buntings and a proper gavache but we were dead sailors once and we've tasted death, we've tasted the shameless death brought upon us in the terms of socially acceptable slavery and this is that death, this is the grey ashen taste in your mouth walking on dry yellow grass, broken glass in our hands as we sear off a ribeye in the ovens of auschwitz, watching guards falling down towers and the eternal struggle is played back on the back side of our minds and we see them, the host darting towards the earth, chasms in the heart of the broken timeless cities, silver, rome, babylon where man thrived and with him, satan's own, this is how we percieve it, this is how we view it but it all so much harder, there is so much more than this, the metaphors and allegories turn into mud, turn back into shit because we've ventured to where words hold no meaning, two lovers caught in bed post-coital watching eachothers glimmering eyes;

This is truth. This is the only truth you will ever see before the churning waves take you down to the bottom of where you came from, the swirling abyss, qlippoth, the great human impotence. The smell of myrrh comes first and you drown in the memories of women you drowned in the skin of and for the first time you are penetrated, great penetrator of life, this is the moment where you understand, this is the moment you are brought to understanding and is forced to think and all you can ask yourself is what way is up, what way is down for there is eternally the sensation of us versus them and that is what most of us feel before we see the lighthouse, hear the sirens and feel the cold watery grave.
Everyone will always be too late