The horselover's Fat

[Sepia]

Into these dying days we breathe life into the clay gathered around us and as god and the good doctor did before us, life is made from less than a rib and nothing new is special. It feels like circles again, circles falling through for us as we gaze into the heavens, hoping to see a loving hand reach out for us and tell us what we want to hear, so many others have been chosen, why not us? Twixt the rabbit and the monster in white, we see nothing, we see no sign of heaven's gates opening for dreams are transcending us without us. Words lose meaning, men lose meaning while the women are more fiery now than earlier, we return to the old mysticks, we return to the old magick to find a clue or an answer, to find something that isn't that hollow, something that contains more of us than us ourselves, something fulfilling

We'd strive and die for the earthly goods we imagined we wanted as a child, turning into young adulthood, remembering the Lovers words that adulthood is hell we sing Tom Waits while we wait for the bus to sneak on board it cuz we don't wanna every grow up. They try to grow us, not consciously, never controlling but hardwired we are to be made decent people, good people with the right attitudes. When I grew up I learned that the children are the future, something so simple that it's eluded us later in this circle dash cycle because we streamlined our future, we tried it, shoehorning everyone into where we would need them, leaving some broken and tattered, some disabled but most with a dependency upon the trust placed into society and one or several of it's systems.

Things change and now, old is the new young. Gurus preaching to drink grass and retard your self while spending too much time in a make-believe system that wants you to look like sari cruise as much as you yourself wants to, the apocalypse heralded with the emptiness of it, our minds become lesser as our new gods are gods because they are gods where in the good old days, gods were gods because they had the best storytellers on their side but the new gods have the people that scream the highest, the equivalent of fourteen year olds on the internet, screaming to a world that don't cares in exclamation marks and if I was still young I'd weep for the direction we're heading in but when I was young I hadn't realized this was the way we'd been going forever, the same old stories and problems upgraded with technology and newer trends but still the same because solomon revealed the world when he told us what was neath the sun.

The clay tells us stories as we are gathered around on the porch, rain falling heavy setting the tone of the stage and good old Will would be proud, the momentum, the drama, the seriousness of the absurd situation but the monster's story is from a different age when we were different words and what was esoteric is in the open, ready for us

[BadBeast]

This is fucking excellent. It gave my brain a boner.