You go from bridge to bridge, on a pedestal of psychic fibers. While all around during Holy Week the dirt from underneath the nails, sprawls an evil mess of weaklings, weeping cynically and unconsciously with a beer in hand: no more living than the dry dead leaves between the sacred toes of children when they play in the streets.
Useless to themselves, to the earth, and to the heavens heedless to this dramatic futility called mankind, "children of god"?! Nevertheless only to be demolished inevitably in our concrete dreams of real vengeance.
Surely, for all the junk in the village, nature will banish the intolerable so called human desolation.
Using our bodies to the bone! Wrenching from the calcium's innards the sweet sidereal marrow, constructing with its essence, a better creature in the next avatar. Crushing like the Virgin the worthless bad and sour mortal soul with our heel!
Taking advantage of the fruitless scrap in our garden. Breeding the Hyperborean Return, and the good death to all mongrels.
** * ** **
Nothin' to save an' nothin' t' lose. The Soul goes up forthright!
