Posts
Jesse S. Mitchell
previous part, Fear of Mannequins, here
Shakespeare
Robosphere (get your machinery out of here)
Robespierre
Troposphere
Abyssalsphere
We are all lucky to still be alive after everything we’ve put into the atmosphere, the words spilled into the ether, the actions decending from good intention to convenient to complete comfort. The distinctions disappear. Complacency poisons. Wisdom weakens.
Aside: and let the rivers all be called Boudicca and Bar Kochba and every other thing like those stories through time, just rushing water through the Roman rock.
But Rome always won.
But time always wins.
But still it goes streaming through, coursing blood, flood, we love a rebel.
And utterances are small and use so little breath. But they can take the life right away from us. Steal the day, rob us blind, like bits of leftover fire found in the cinders and embers. What was once thought smothered can flare out of control with the littlest air. Feed the thing and demands more fodder. And then everything is a blaze.
Oh heal me, heal me modernity, the wound split open me, spilling out dust and ash. Hollow. Empty. Heal me. Become sewn up, sealed shut.
Erudition, let us praise everything now. Let us praise Heathrow. Let us praise JFK, LaGuardia, LAX. Let us praise flight, expansion.
Erudition, let us praise lies and hopes of the future, illumination, advancement, new beginnings. Let us praise fear and faithlessness and bitter hands and never looking back. Let us praise potency and potential.
Let us praise tomorrow.
And never yesterday, never again. La porte de l’enfer.
Conceptus tome. So close and now we all dream together.
Soulless things and ridiculous voids and over repeated words, old bad blood stymied in the clotted veins. Satisfaction too dear, cuts too deep, gratification too costly, frozen too solid. Static and noise. But fly, but fly. Like the birds in the air. Like the maddened insects before the storms. Burst into the ugly calm surrounding air and explode to life and when you land again, it will be in a brand new world, remade, reformed, so totally new, assailed by ravaging winds and uncontrollable moisture. Rebirthed like memories and fresh rushing rivers. No shadows of clouds. No one else’s blood beneath the mud nourishing your flower beds, your green grass. Open-eyed visions of open-eyed Earths. Everything alive. As alive as life.
A blaze.
A fire.
A real fire.
previous part, Fear of Mannequins, here
Shakespeare
Robosphere (get your machinery out of here)
Robespierre
Troposphere
Abyssalsphere
We are all lucky to still be alive after everything we’ve put into the atmosphere, the words spilled into the ether, the actions decending from good intention to convenient to complete comfort. The distinctions disappear. Complacency poisons. Wisdom weakens.
Aside: and let the rivers all be called Boudicca and Bar Kochba and every other thing like those stories through time, just rushing water through the Roman rock.
But Rome always won.
But time always wins.
But still it goes streaming through, coursing blood, flood, we love a rebel.
And utterances are small and use so little breath. But they can take the life right away from us. Steal the day, rob us blind, like bits of leftover fire found in the cinders and embers. What was once thought smothered can flare out of control with the littlest air. Feed the thing and demands more fodder. And then everything is a blaze.
Oh heal me, heal me modernity, the wound split open me, spilling out dust and ash. Hollow. Empty. Heal me. Become sewn up, sealed shut.
Erudition, let us praise everything now. Let us praise Heathrow. Let us praise JFK, LaGuardia, LAX. Let us praise flight, expansion.
Erudition, let us praise lies and hopes of the future, illumination, advancement, new beginnings. Let us praise fear and faithlessness and bitter hands and never looking back. Let us praise potency and potential.
Let us praise tomorrow.
And never yesterday, never again. La porte de l’enfer.
Conceptus tome. So close and now we all dream together.
Soulless things and ridiculous voids and over repeated words, old bad blood stymied in the clotted veins. Satisfaction too dear, cuts too deep, gratification too costly, frozen too solid. Static and noise. But fly, but fly. Like the birds in the air. Like the maddened insects before the storms. Burst into the ugly calm surrounding air and explode to life and when you land again, it will be in a brand new world, remade, reformed, so totally new, assailed by ravaging winds and uncontrollable moisture. Rebirthed like memories and fresh rushing rivers. No shadows of clouds. No one else’s blood beneath the mud nourishing your flower beds, your green grass. Open-eyed visions of open-eyed Earths. Everything alive. As alive as life.
A blaze.
A fire.
A real fire.
and the end.
the end.
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