Journey to Dirt

In the beginning there was mucous, blood, grey and purple skin. There were cacophonous sounds and everything was light. Hands on your body, sensation of your own cry, coughing up the fluid from inside. Cold steel, warm blankets, pinpricks, trembling hands passing the new body around, the breath of your parents on your face, or not. It is romantic to think it was violent, that moment of your birth, it is arrogant to believe it was not.

Everything had changed.

Growth happened over the years. Plague and fear. Your unlimited curiosity stabbed by the million laws. Gratefulness is replaced with unrealistic needs. Things. A shopping spree of ballcaps, TVs, the latest brightener, soothe-goop, popstar jewels extracted unethically from third world thighs, and cattle crying in the fields for tenderer meat… Somewhere inside we must be trying to find the womb, swim against this tide, get back to our shuddering mucous covered muteness. Peace within ineptitude — now achievable through only our greatest sins. Sex by numbers is a game we placate our inner demons with, not seeing they grow wilder at the smell of our rancid unused groins… We need these demons, telling us who we are and what we’re meant to be. Lubricating oils spontaneously produce, made of scented atoms which open our chests to one another, engage the feral beasts underneath. The most natural thing is to growl as two and four-legged pheromones pass us. Sweat is the Goddess we were warned about.

Instead we play at it, repress, shame, shroud in silence, and ignore the harmonic dance of life.

We turn on the telly to remember how it goes: fuck when you see fuck, cry when you see cry, or sometimes rigidly sit in flaccid bewilderment while the clown fails to connect with you. These choreographies were meant for flesh met times. We aren’t learning an authentic dance.

The edge of a cliff looms. Stare down the slick walls of your erectness and the whole world seems opportunity to procreate. Unpracticed we fail and fail again, jizz impotent. Tissues, a hand. Silent. Waste without the divine intertwined.

You forget you are holy.

The most natural thing is touching yourself. Feel the hum of blood, rise and fall of sunshine in your chest. The most natural thing is wanting others, give and take, dark roots, bright moon.

Sip in the air, open up your chest. Oxygen works its way from center to the infinity above your head and depths down. Extend your range, aim to horizon and beyond, it’s what you are here for. Fill Universe with sound and light, your mucus filled lungs and mini images of you flying into the vastness. Again! Again! Thrive! Find delight! Seduce, ground, recognize this road lined in shining mica to the dirt.

Silence lies sold to you for comfort.  Bad exchange, believing yourself worthless, unwhole, made wrong, incomplete, or meant for less.

We are powerful and brilliant. Older siblings reaching hands to help the next. We are frustrated beetles covering the windowsills of this house, trying forever to stay warm and get the fuck out. We are hardy and hopeful, shaking the Earth, stepping on ground given us which someday will swallow all whole. Fall into soil. Risen from sex. Lived wary of love or discovery, no true release. How do we Gods master time before bugs carry corpus away? Smell of rain and soil is calling from your cunt. We learn to play.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

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