s.x. b4 [i] d13, 2015





s.x. b4 [i] d13

:I can see fields of white nothingness,
Into which all things are made,
Boisterous in simplicity,
Sustaining its void until it fades,
Into the realm of unending darkness,
Where deafening freedom rings,
From the choir of feral spirits,
And the shredded throats from which they sing:

As if vacuum formed, a shape of a body remembered.
Lungs in atrophy from a lack of need.
Air forced through plastic to awaken 1
Into form reformed.
Existing by rules created for residence in simulation
Until now.

Transported precariously into haphazard conditions.
Forced to come undone without prior psychological training.
Left to do human mathematics, presumably on 1's own.
150 stages past comfortable will attract certain attention.
(This is way off the usual meter readings).
This is the infusion.
The transfusion.
The stage at which the colorless void becomes blood red.
And soft.
And warm.
And pungent.
And clotted.
And ugly (or at least undesirable to most).

:I remember fields of white nothingness,
Into which all things were made,
Beauty based on geometry,
Upholding the void until it fades,
Into the vast and inky darkness,
Where stacks of soft bodies lie,
Undulating in sync to heartbeats,
And the chorus of reverberated cries:

This is the first sense of 4 walls.
The padded steps of soft feet, calm yet purposeful, same but other.
Scents recognized from deep within tissue.
Scents archived by the collective subconscious.
The deliberate pause calling instinct to action.
Inside, something uncurls and emerges without permission.

Pristine environments overruled when walls meet ceilings
Glued at the seams by clotted blood.
Viscera dripping down the length of the walls
Until it meets the floor and pools at my feet.
1 turns to face 2.
Eyes blazing hot coals.
Pupils full of messages upon messages until color is no more.
1 is 2.
Fallen looking upon my its kin.
Fallen facing Fallen.
Obedient to other G0ds now.
Clotted blood covering feet.
And severe.
And, at least,

The Approach.
Anticipation morphs soft bodies into hard polygons.
Faces into sharp angles and severe lines.
Skin into faceted exoskeletons to protect them during the impending collision.
Blood no longer contained [by the form],
Escaping to the outer layer [of the form],
To give [the form] some slip.
Turning from inside to outside to accommodate rituals tried and true:
The smells of heated flesh,
The sounds of heated flesh,
The feels of heated flesh.
The body being cooked from the inside out.
Cooked like soup.
The crimson stock now pooling ankle deep.
Adamantly expressive.
Until sated.
And shredded.  
By edges.

:And what remains is as a beacon,
So that the choir directs its sounds,
To something other than this place of protection,
To that space that is unbound,
Where persuasions occur at unhearable volumes,
And bring from death those tired souls,
And give them place among these Ang3ls,
And make the fragments into whole:

They sing:

:We abandon fields of white nothingness,
Into which all things were made,
Only a space through which one is moving,
Sustaining the void until it fades,
Into the deepest forests of the darkest shadows,
Where other G0ds have lived unseen,
Allowing the expression of the unpalatable,
and necessarily validating the Between.