Good Times in Babylon

Molten child

You’ve taken a real break

Cold drinks and powdered worms

Sun dried meats and throat burns.

No time to think about anyone’s place

In the choreography of the insane performer

Who envelops all of her children

Worker ants, here to play.

You dig but can’t find a bottom

Touching shapes in a dark room

A blind expanse of mystery at the nucleus

The thing that keeps you breathing at night

Paints your dreams with the voices of ancestors

The thing that makes a seed fly

Your organs play on their own

Makes a snake eat its own tail

A dog eat its own shit

A human torture another

A plant save a life

Makes One emerge from Zero

A magician trick a fool…

The word made flesh, and waiting to be consumed

Back to the womb.

You woke up, for once not drenched

in your own personal mythology

Not suffocating under layers of thickly coated symbols.

They emerged gently as jigsaw pieces

floating towards one another

This is one of your strangest lives.

We’ll be there with our scalpels

Anytime you’re ready to stop

We’ll slit open the eye

You keep trying to sew shut

And sterilize with ethanol

But the wound is the message.

We sent you waves of misty clues

Vague teases in the night haze

We whispered back when you screamed

Again and again in spoiled desperation

Never learning…

You loaded your brain with colors

Packed your nose with tree ash

You stuffed your teeth with strings

Gorged the child in you with plastic

Filled your throat with fruit venom

Pumped your stomach acid onto the world

Shoved your skin into others’ minds

Anything to suspend the moment.

We were always there

All we ask is that you be quiet for a day

And listen.

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