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Frothy Greasy Midget Horse Sweat
18 years ago
Writing is a bit of a quest of me, to impart the unspeakable vision into spoken language across the gulf between my mind and yours. It's an impossible undertaking, I thoroughly recognise this, just as the grail was a completely perilous quest fraught with heavy armour and homoerotic knights. I cannot enumerate the specific set of criteria that exists to form the parallels of thought, the walls if you will, of this vision that rises in the morning and falls away in the evening. I would have as much luck imparting my particular view of the world upon all of you as I would firing a Brazilian tree frog into orbit by stuffing it up the rectum of a twelve year old Chinese boy and lighting a firecracker in his mouth.
There was a time when the world was just a sunset, and within that endless evening existed all the lovely things in the world, like coffee cake, watermelons, and greasy midget porn. The cities spun beyond the reckoning eye, gold and glitter dusted down to twilight, resting wild below mountains of steam and sorrow as those hideous lights filled an empty sky. In moments the work of millennia came to an end, resting upon the busy backs of children and cockroaches sent shivering into the nuclear season.
I was a rock, you a mighty general, with your guns and boys and horses, parading in endless circles from campaign to campaign, the sweet frothy loam of sweat and blood whispered down upon my patient face that last, muggy Summer day. You spoke of utopia, driving those luckless scoundrels irrevocably forward, forcing them to shake the disease that so wrapped their fragile concepts of war and strife. I alone knew of your resounding doubt, I alone knew the unpleasant truth you hid behind your proud words and painted horses. Humanity can never exist in a peaceful world.
We came to rest, among the broken bones of the world, burning and dreaming, fused within our fallen city. I remember your laughter, the way the sunlight was always kind to you, so I was never ashamed to die at your feet. All that moves past us now, drifting down with the sun, evaporating like steam from the endless rivers of consciousness that carry us away. Time stretches away and becomes the prison of our ideals, at once we are forever this moment, standing monuments to a freshly slain epoch.
We play out these echoes across the years, each century that passes, brushing hands, building empires. The cities are all different, but the rubble, the broken bricks and haunted laughter, are the same. Across a thousand points in time, bleached by the sun, cleaned by the crows, waiting out eternity.
Heaven is a quiet place.
There was a time when the world was just a sunset, and within that endless evening existed all the lovely things in the world, like coffee cake, watermelons, and greasy midget porn. The cities spun beyond the reckoning eye, gold and glitter dusted down to twilight, resting wild below mountains of steam and sorrow as those hideous lights filled an empty sky. In moments the work of millennia came to an end, resting upon the busy backs of children and cockroaches sent shivering into the nuclear season.
I was a rock, you a mighty general, with your guns and boys and horses, parading in endless circles from campaign to campaign, the sweet frothy loam of sweat and blood whispered down upon my patient face that last, muggy Summer day. You spoke of utopia, driving those luckless scoundrels irrevocably forward, forcing them to shake the disease that so wrapped their fragile concepts of war and strife. I alone knew of your resounding doubt, I alone knew the unpleasant truth you hid behind your proud words and painted horses. Humanity can never exist in a peaceful world.
We came to rest, among the broken bones of the world, burning and dreaming, fused within our fallen city. I remember your laughter, the way the sunlight was always kind to you, so I was never ashamed to die at your feet. All that moves past us now, drifting down with the sun, evaporating like steam from the endless rivers of consciousness that carry us away. Time stretches away and becomes the prison of our ideals, at once we are forever this moment, standing monuments to a freshly slain epoch.
We play out these echoes across the years, each century that passes, brushing hands, building empires. The cities are all different, but the rubble, the broken bricks and haunted laughter, are the same. Across a thousand points in time, bleached by the sun, cleaned by the crows, waiting out eternity.
Heaven is a quiet place.
