The surrounding conversations blend into a droning hum,
that sounds like a distant orchestra of sub-machine guns,
shooting all the broken teeth of a forgotten incantation
into the heart of a war that we call
communication.
Every explanation is a martial strategy
to cross enemy lines and raise our flag in victory.
They'll never shoot until you've put your heart upon the line,
and each slicing bullet is a piece of
someone else's mind.
And each shot smashes the mirror that has given us the twisted view
of our upside-down reflections dangling
opposite the truth.
No, communication is not concerned with brotherly love.
It's a sacred mating ritual
that’s often drenched in blood,
where men will gouge one another with their well-sharpened headdresses
for the chance to dance upon the altars
of the priestesses..
All the forms of communication turn out to be service roads
that fill the event which pumps the fabric of the cosmos,
and is the swinging door for both the death and rebirth of innocence,
which is hinged by the magnetism merging
every cock and cunt.
Every moment is a cross-section of eternity;
a dense, blue form of interconnected infinity
where Nature's sweet vagina is continuously primed by God,
while she exudes the orgasmic spirals
on which we live and love,
in hopes of tuning in upon her trembling excitation,
and his loving, tireless, primal, thrusting,
deep penetration.
But we are tired and ripped and gone and tied by wires to absence
as our sad little spirit-tongues strain to taste the dust specks
left over from the rays that filter down into the thickening dark
of our atmospheric graves, shining from
God's strobing lighthouse cock
each time it rhythmically withdraws from Chaos's veiled vagina
to send sparks flying into some men's minds
and light occasional fire.
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