lucaso

Sight Without Depth

Regaining promises of birth, a giant reposes inside a violet coast, his eyelids are the anvils we reach for on promontories of light composing his enormous body, dividing the cosmos from man, stretching from the Burgess, its pubs, shop, halls and unbearable tonality not yet submerged in the duality allowing us to understand evolution as formidable consistency, to oil rigs constructing themselves from the Sea as if the torture of love wasn't the last contingency igniting the will to think of ourselves as something different from the fire we mine to escape a Hell we are yet to endure for eternity; still too scared to peer over golden purlins, promenades without doorways braid his scalp, the instinct of flight might prove too true and we may never see ourselves again as eternal lovers chasing the guarantee of equal exchange, the last resemblance of pure nothing issuing forth inverted streams maintaining the Sun as abrasion; rocks slit the giants throat, brine scolds his sweetness, impossible operas are muffled to calm echoes that are his voice which - due to him only knowing the south - could only could ever be screams imitating his paralysation. Healed by moonlight, though at no specific time, he vanishes from our sight - now a star, forever rising, he sinks into the moulder of darkness we call the universe, avoiding space by any means possible, churning foam into pastoral blue, the arrival of spring; sticking our heads to the ground, we bury the notion that this has had any affect on us at all.

The Hymn of Tomorrow; -
She is followed!...Eternal presence,
Every conceivable being unfolded to its core
Of pure Ecstasy! Unfathomable universes, single and immense,
Return the mother's tears, creating an immutable shore.

All we know through scent is memory, touching and falling as we did a thousand years ago, divided between a decimal, catalysed by the future revelation of maternalised mathematical perfection corresponding to the existence of a world which shows nothing more, and always, to be the void of love which is itself; without role and always responsible, life is measured by the thriving for a fate reprised of entirely new distortions. Finally, the twisted marrow we use as a telescope to burn out our eyes at sunset switches back to the relic we picked up from the fireplace, inside a room we never knew we walked in, inside the mansion of eternal hallways -pathetic laughter of children, coupled with the noise of miniature cars driving away on terraces, causes teacups to fall and smash around the shadows of our corpse.

Prayers cause the uprising of zombies that can only consume themselves, desires to transform are continually squelched by the possibility of being known, and remembered, marking quality as the only satisfactory obligation we hold onto in death. Even the divine line knows you once splintered it to a cross! The last delight to ever come out of suffering submerges itself to fiery pits of subjugation, rolling in diamond gorse, - the world without flesh only I can touch! The inevitable destiny!... The blackhole flooding the horizon with silver is the cause of every kind of motion.
Perhaps the smell of burning deemed as corporal should only be called tropical; - even then, Dawn fades away as birth... 

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