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| Inward awareness and conscious eternal life. |
Thought and memory. The two wings that belong to the normal mind.
Creatures in heaven and in the sky, to move unabated.
Impervious to all who touch and deem spatial frontiers, accessible. To decaying hands and earthen brains.
Creatures in and on the earth. Living and moving in their own kind of Aether. Within their predestined mind set, immaculate and pristine soul. Archetypes which are divine agencies unharmed by scientific vanity cast shadows on the reflective mud. Shimmering.
Creatures underneath. Held at bay at arm’s length. And genies preventing the telluric sulfurs from hurting the breathing beasts, thoroughly and lavishiously peopling the earth’s belly with diverse life forms of an inherently unspeakable beauty.
And at times Hell’s host will shed ugliness on the lot of it all! Pretending to claim some sort of supremacy on it. Making ugliness the golden mean, and then on top of it, to be perversely proud of it: a kind of inverted unsacral meme!
Ripples on the quiet in our profound unbending unheard of darkness. A bright unfathomable energy. Giving no explanation of itself. Nothing to be said then squandered!
Written in ciphers on some torn shredded parchment. To be stolen then lost, then sold.
** * ** **
The light doesn’t curve in a great emptiness. But goes straight onward, back and forth, into the infinite. Never-ending in a watchful briefness. Uttering secret never known words, into hurdles of wind, beneath the firmament.
While archons decide man’s fate through the filtering obstructions of positioned planets and stars, weaving in the dark blue wilderness, a web of greater and minor beings, intermingled from within and out. Entangling god’s eyes in a crisscross of embarrassing perplexity.
Sometimes there are miscellaneous stones thrown into the quiet pond, like meteors in the night sky offending the universal transparent order!
** * ** **
Where then, is what is relative? Who told these lies from the start? In what injured clime did a preposterous scoundrel with a white lab coat make believe with mathematical gibberish in a planet lost in space?
Nothing to be really understood or quantified? Theorems to blind ignoramuses, educated like good dogs. Seeing what mystifies, then eventually losing touch with real life and themselves.
Integral integers delineating. Wanton mistakes for flattering Nobel Prizes!
Islands floating indefinitely going no where. Until hitting some inexplicable, unawaited wall. Abashed and humiliated. Foiled in a terrific conceptual ineptie.
Surprised within a Great Lie. For fairy idiots. Becoming simply stupid then appalled!
Bowing to some desert alien mongrel who with its vicious mashing teeth swallows blood and joints. Mangled flesh. A vampire.
The Babylonian myth monger. Parading in a desolate wasteland, where only a thick black blood can rise. To filthy the earth, and what’s above, in the air where pretty sprites wander, as well those organic things that move, on the world’s lonely surface. No gods nowhere, just a silly uncatered barrenness: the conceited post-modern man who squints in the dark.
** * ** **
Hugin says in disgust how undelightfully feverish he feels. Misinterpreted as he is. When he can fly from east to west. North to south. By fake science, its seers and new age priestesses.
Munin only regrets it all occasionally, while wetting Odin’s chest, with relentless tears.
Waiting for that special time with his pals, when barren earth shall give rise to purple irises and two-toned daffodils on the sea front where we’ll harvest salt for the future banquet of good tidings.
Here on this stationary flat globe, dazzled by marvelous stars. Yearning for today.
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| Hugin & Munin & Pals. |
