this is not the light of a bloodletting sun, or the crematory rage of another war. this is a heat death of loves and selves and abandoned paths, winding inward, into dissolution, into forms that lose shape and meaning and metaphor.
I am told, here is where you bury your notions of a safe and easy life. that the answers you seek will bring you truth, but not necessarily home. Here is where you will glaze over monuments of a finished age, pondering before the great stone statues of naked human forms trapped in either mid-scream or orgasm. They could be your ancestors. They could be your possible futures. The wind has a sting of mass extinction. If breathing was required of me, I would be choking on the histories of acid rain in congested neon, of life reduced to a holographic lover. I feel my neural programming compromising itself with nostalgia viruses and future fears.
My skin is falling from a body that’s no longer mine. Theres a revenant program running through my conscii-servers.
My eyes, no longer accustomed to this crimson fog, look inwards to the deserts of time not yet created. There, I do not find the sadness I’ve carried with me since i first saw the fall of snow. There, I find myself blind or asleep or dreaming.
“you call cab sir? you call cab?”
The face in the rearview mirror is a black sack cloth. In that small reflective rectangle i can see a baby octopus crawling near what should be an eye. The driver seems dressed as a male-homosapien, in some luxurious criss cross silver grey suit, black leather gloves, a satin top hat. A dandy. But this person smells of clean cut grass and soot and cherry-ade and vagina cream. The meter says $111, what currency, I don’t know. The name tag says M-TESPU. It’s voice seem distant, like wind chimes or the rumble of an ancient volcano or the insanity noise of a coke-head, babbling in the language of angels. “you want girls sir? young goddess? star goddess?”
we are stuck in traffic.
To my left, i see a close-up of a black stallion. bloodshot eyes. sweating. on it a rider in a fencing suit, fencing mask, with steam billowing out of the face. To my right i see a large blue foot in teh distance, like a mountain, cut off at the ankle, standing firm on a shore with a blue tent near its big toe.
“traffic bad, God die up front.”
I look up ahead. There is a heap of feathers on fire. an absurdity in the air. police sirens. fighter jets bursting past.
The driver hands me two dices with only one dot on one of the faces. I smell cigar smoke, popcorn, a decomposing animal.
“you play game,” he says, “you roll. maybe you bring dead god back.”
without thinking i toss the dice unto the dark brown leather seat next to me. two black dots face up of course. two eyes. the light of a bloodletting sun blinds us all through the windscreen. car horns go off like manic street orchestras.
Some kind of rooster monster rises before us. I hear wives screaming with their children. the hair on my back stands. I suddenly remember my life as a Templar knight. I see the serpent tail of the monster, the shield glinting with satellite lights, i see the whip cutting through the air, then pointing directly at us.
“you bring chicken feed?” M-tespu yells, “Abrasax, hungry! you bring chicken feed!?” M-Tespu laughs like a hyena. There is no mouth i can see in the black sack cloth. The dice by my side are blinking at me.
I am told, the women and children should not be screaming. But they are too used to sights of angels or men with holes in their hands to appreciate this Holy Vision of a cock headed god.
I am told the answers i seek are irrelevant once i’ve entered into the being of an Aeon.
I am told no matter how far I am from the DNA of human flesh, I am still at the core, begotten by teh first breath.
“You call me a cab sir? you call me a cabbage?”
The rooster god is gone. we are parked out in some red desert.
M-Tespu has a gun in my face. He is not laughing. The dice next to me have been rolled one blank one dot. There are bees in the taxi. The empty gas tank light is on and beeping.
I am told the naked statues out there in the last Vegas dessert were actually fucking, but no one had survived the atrocities to witness it.
i am told, much later, after i was re-comissioned, that the driver known as M-Tespu was less of a cosmic being and more than a comic being, and he had shot me in the face in order to wear it for his next crusade.
I am told he may have some of the answers i seek, but his price is demanding, requiring heat death of loves and selves and abandoned paths, turning ever inward into dissolution.
#irvingpaulpereira #spwm2018day6 #nocrit