No voice.

I have no voice yet. I am still searching for it, inside of myself. Without light from the sun. Guided only by an internal light which cannot be extinguished by the turning of cosmos. There is no depth like that of your own soul. It is easy to ignore this fact. We are privileged with the ability to dress the world up, to alter matter, to create hiding places for ourselves. The universe expanding outward infinitely our mind contracting inward infinitely. Our lives a tightrope dance suspended perilously above the ying and the yang. Falling too far into the light or the dark will ultimately leave one blind. And we are blind, blind as moles, as doorknobs, corpses, newborns. Our eyes covered as we cling to the whirling introversion and extroversion, we palpitate like the lungs of halibut and osculate with dexterous ambiguity between mortal and unconscionable.

Humanity is capable of far more than it is told. The fact that we allow ourselves to be told is slap in the face, a cruel trick on humanity perpetrated by humanity itself. Long ago we cast off the dirty robes of the farmer, the tattered cloak of the shepherd, the blood stained shiv of the saint, the immobilizing frock coat of the gentleman, the monocle of the aristocrat, all of it lay boiling at our feet molten, quicksilver, out of the oozing puddle climbs modern man with his head turned backwards and no lights in his eyes. An alien creature to his predecessor, his ancestors. A technological abortion gilded in the age of misinformation.

As I scream this my larynx fills with blood because there is still no voice. Just a hot fart omitted from the mouth. Not even a turd to show for it. And with all this blood and hot fart out tumbles a particle, less than that, an atom, no a quark, a ghost inside the machine, bleating for a moment of recognition where it gives birth to a concept, some massive conceptual cock exploding with sperm out in the cosmos and laying waste, raping the stars and forming a stellar fetus, a new galaxy unto itself forged in the static miasma that is American, stepchild to atomism, cousin of cold war, father of chaos. While the music of a silent night plays just like the silent squeeze box underneath her silken panties a moist salty ocean screaming with the hallowed voice of a lost civilization an infant sun burning at trillions of degrees sucking in particles at such a rate and give strength to gravity through unbridled destruction and consumption so like mankind itself. This godless idiot of a life form. Breaking bone and nail, destroying families, scorching the earth, in order to get down beyond a layer or two of sediment in an attempt at laying eyes on the sacred ore that turns your guts rotten and makes your eyeballs spin like marbles.

Just one more, one more drink, or one more fuck, one more breath to save us from that which we can not return, not death, nay, not judgment, but the future. Inevitability. Forward. This goddamn progress to which not even the most stubborn round American ass can alter by slamming into. Bearing down at the speed past that of light, heavier than that of mass itself. All of this from a man with no voice.I have no voice because there is nothing left to say. Everything worth saying has been written in stone and plagiarized one thousand times over. Only actions can speak now. A-bombs exploding leaving the Earth stripped and barren, that will be mankind final sentence spoken, making less sound than a drop of a pin on the great pillow of existence.

As I walk through streets crafted by hands that no longer spin concrete I am happy to ask why we should continue this way. In this ally between two buildings, one falling into decrepitude and the other shining like a fresh new born sticky with embryonic fluid, two buildings standing juxtaposed without a hint of relation between the two of them. The infrastructure of civilization is crumbling beneath the souls of my shoes. One side of the road is the dead whore and the other side a twenty thousand dollar boob job. Plastic surgery being preformed on a corpse.

Underneath a cobalt steel sunken sky drained of life by the sucking vortex of the suns passing away while we spin ourselves stupid never knowing in which direction we head, up or down. Because in reality it makes no difference. Just another etching in the side of a primordial cliff filled with the dried sperm of the dinosaurs bubbling and burning away to rip open a hole in the ozone and deliver us back to that from which we came. This diesel engine parked inside my guts pumping the iron through narrow passages in my liver up through my cerebellum collecting the pinks and golds sending them back down into my groin and raising that last true expression of humanity. Just one hard prick functioning like clock work. Through the streets like this one thousand times over, another face in the crowed with no name and no identity like so many cells destine to inflict DNA replication on a new generation of mouth breathing inefficacies trying to ram their rods into something soft and warm in order to proliferate a species bent on a beautiful abysmal malfunction.

Please stop me if I get to close to the mark. But you never will because you have no idea where the mark even is. It doesn’t exist on a map beeping softly with the highlight of a pin. It vibrates like a low stunk f flat being stuck by the finger of god bursting your ear drums and leaving you staggering and unable to believe that such perfection could be inflicted on a species so ignorant of its own artistic ability. The greatest artist to ever live and all we have to show for it is hardcore porn and the Sistine Chapel, Duran Duran, a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll, going up in a cloud of smoke cast from the burning embers of a dream from the furnace of the first cave man leaving his bloody paw print on the cave walls of El Castillo. Only to depreciate from there without any regard for the labor form which this print was given.

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