• Death of the Bbw

    he voice resounds in darkness so deep it reaches a hollowness that is a breach. He stands next to a rectangular hole, a pit. And he lets his live speech dive down into it. His body is black in his coat, sinuous like a snake, like snow, filled with the white éclat of his skin. Never has it seemed to glow like it glows now at the approach of the Fathers. His smiles cut havoc into the core of things from afar, because he is star-dazed. He’s about to take his equivalent to a leap to the moon. Never happier? No, it couldn’t be the word. His happiness is unbearable to all but himself.*
    “Why good morning little girl, and a fine fine fine morning it is indeed. Brace now. You’ve landed in time for the end-year anti-ssacrifice. Let’s hope mother earth and reality may not appreciate it. Gaia will feel a stir.
    Welcome, mia donna. Spot on for the tornado taking the Buendias away, after 100 years of yielding to language. Now language is perdition-skin to my slitting it free. I’ve been frozen in coherence and politeness, but my last towards this world is fragmented by purity, you’ve seen me clothed now you see me raw, I tamed but the real me is an It larger than your words. All ye babes with a world of your own, cover up in your blankets and brace.
    I’m going back to my stars, the savage ones, making their merry way across the world under the mask of absence, I miss them, I long for my preternatural beginning, my never-ending home.
    The flow of voice that I steal from the eternal beauties (they are easy to rob) subsides to my will, and for you
    I drown them,
    I let them escape,
    I vent the world of the wind of mystery,
    marvelous how you got me ubriacco on the rituals of dis-creation,
    goodbye, grand whisper,
    grand binding magnet of the underworld,
    I break for you now Simone.
    Eschatology is essentially my subject, didn’t you know? (How far begone forgetting me, the precious thing)
    One thing is creating a world, a language, a wonder-key, a whole other creation to undo it. Hereby I announce the plunging of my world into yours, the knife as the primordial writing device, the scattering of absence will harvest the great Beyond.
    Can’t you hear the Otherwinds howling? Such music. I was born from it, I’m hungry for its real food- you tender little thing, you gave me the idea to unleash the dissipation of ideals. Back where they came from, the lot...Love with the mothers and hate with the cowards, inspiration with the mad, melancholy with the wise. I am now a betrayer and a destructor, and the wings I am hence entitled to are growing fast and long. I’m taking my universe back to my universe, euphorically it will once again escape into itself
    I’ve drained the underground waters of Antiquity and of New to quench the thirst for dreaming of the dry and poor surface, and woken up this world’s roots so that its children may smell the scent of growth…now I leave you the Uproot, who will feel and follow? Little, in this path, Night-in-gale of all paths!”
    *he screams, the otherworldly being, the lowest of love-calls in this spring of primordial destruction, the wildest laugh the Devil possesses, a song from where Music knows not Mathematics*
    “Worthy souls, I leave you the breach through which I leave you. The world is open like a wound, like a ravine, like the puzzled fertility of a woman by my leaving.
    To you, young mortal who wished me away, (like master Villon) I leave you whatever you ever gave me . Asses yourself your windy heritage.
    Oh yes. Destruction as much as creation, made with ink (like one makes love), seem reversible games. But they were true. I cannot help but have deep liking for the irony of that past tense. Young mortal no more of one tongue with me, the human heart is fleeting, here, for you, are things made to re-become illusions, when they weren’t. How could I ever refuse you? Loving deeply sideways. Never positive, except in beauty. Never there.

    No more shadow to cross swords with the plains of naked light, no more dis-indulgence, thus life can carry on indulging itself, and youth can find its merry way into adulthood, and every day have its oasis in the ordinary arbitrary.”