At the edge of the real.
At the plummet of denial,
At the summit of all we pretend,
No forward to discover again.
Doorway into Scorpionic revelation — severe, profound,
grabs from beneath the conscious realm.
One big hurt.
Taste our pain.
Savor the flow of blood from torn veins,
wounds of idolic war, vitriolic rain,
beggars kicked into oblivion on deadened streets.
Pain, the great motivator.
Grind them all into a massive meatball,
cover with condiments extracted from tortured Earth,
this is the wealth that is worth
Maggots and microbes
feast on soft decay of blood.
Can the wage of war feed outlandish habituation?
Twisted, tinged in dark crimson layers,
smell terror, ooze of death —
Seeking power of wisdom:
Multiple paths converge on star points,
pierced by light, taste of blood in roar of darkness.
Inspired by anger engorging my blood-brain barrier,
by symphonies of guilt and shame and hope,
by simple positionings glimpsed from roving eyes by lightening,
darkening, liminal desires,
by brave warriors who cope with more than could be required
and wind songs my silent ear demands I hear.
It is foolishness to think that paradigm-wrecking change will not inflict pain.
Perhaps it would be better if the shift would just Poof! —
all the trauma and bloodshed washed up at once
into horrific tableau, then Enlightenment!
I don’t think it can work that way.
Mostly we seem to not be inclined to any major changes
without misery so deep we see no other option.
I am emphatically not “for” this; but it seems to be so,
beyond my ability to control.