/lit/ - Literature

>>4148779
There is a great inestimable pride in our spirit that crawls out and demands we make what we want our own. Our own alphabet and language. Our own buildings, our own discourse, my land, my people. Does it really mean anything? Dreams die on the lips, not the sword. Dreams die in the eyes: let the spear be damned to rot and ruin. To what great masterpiece do we owe life and love? What magniloquent author do we pay our service, our bodies to? Under which rock do we pry ourselves from? Are the angels truly jealous of that ever perpetuating myth of Free Will? What proofs do we have that either actually exists? The stars are real; they touch us not. What angel races between them? The very act of mournful worship speeds their feet, not their thought. Nothing speeds the thoughts of a million pins dancing on the head of a frost-bitten angel. Their skin is blue from icy breath. Why not ours, too? Where is the mystery in their death or do they never suffer the petty pangs of free will? We are whales in their thought. They, the minnows in ours. To be jealous of clay! The thought is monstrously preposterous. Truly, be jealous of arctic breath.

We smile rictus-like for what was lost to us in unpaced ravages of time, the ravishment of youth who never learned to love the picking of cotton, to say sir or ma’am, to wait for Saturday morning cartoons. The peanut gallery is dead, dead. Hollywood royalty harvests Oedipus like Jimmy Carter harvested peanuts. The new earth recoils at blood and rejoices in dust. Struck dumb at the sight of a veiny cow’s Udder. The mother is struck down in bitterness. To taste despair when a young promise is struck down by Ambien and Valium. What dies tomorrow is lost today. Fifty years-fifty years it took for the dung eaters to celebrate a vacuous socialite and revile wild-haired thinkers. Da Vinci would be stoned a heretic, a two month old son in his arms. Shall we die in flames? Burnt by unforgiven gravities we are all bound to? The Rituals we’ve grown accustomed to strangle us not by inches but by light-years. New today, gone tomorrow. We’ve dulled our teeth on vacant idols, lost to appetites in dying technological deserts. Dictionaries are as foreign to our hands as condoms. We conform to secret signs that we do not recognize, that lay on our skin like dark spots. Sin is the by-word for fame and success. We taste reason as ashes in our mouth, radioactive and losing sanity. We celebrate Atlantis and destroy Venice. The screed of blood and thinking, you can save us with social reform while we can’t even stand the taste in our mouth. Save us, save us, the careless mantra. Save yourselves! Parry the lies for those who live. Let the dead rest.