blown out: new cruiser (riot season)

right now, my skull is a curious abandoned pleasure. no fixed abode. shaken a buncha stuff loose, punched through cobwebs, skweejeed the smut from eyes.

this?

this is opening gates, kicking in torii to the other. sky’s vibrating, a mirror breaking. this is the way out.

you should all be here as a witness.

now?

now, light flares with inutterable logic.

it starts as it always does. an om headfuck. with the hiss and crunch, the klang and klatter, the thump and pulse, the flail and thunder. a reverberation: glorious; tumescent; to the point.

not so much starts as never stops.

this shit is a rarefied ectoplasma; galactus filaments filleting atoms. monolithic. elemental.

a triptych working with no horizon, no point of reference, only nothing and everything all at once. locked down rhythm like ocean tides. no rush, no race, no finish. it’s zen. just there. mesmeric.

in the thrall of the chord, the note. progression like tectonic plates shift. all chords, all notes. wave upon wave of cosmic fizz, a subsonic hoom to rattle bones to dust.

knots of ferric bursts to be picked at. unfolding, unfurling, insisting, enveloping, ascending. whatever the opposite of confined is, this is. an ever changing key to an unchanging void. lemarchand’s box, the lament configuration just waiting to be opened, and each time the architecture’s different.

and when the puzzles solved, in the end we’re all specks in space. like always. like never.

blown out / riot season

 

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