Once again I find myself alold, solitary wandering through
the frozen herb garden in the gleaming darkness, trying to return gold signals
from the murderous mayhem within the great house from wheres laughter light was
spilling through chinks in the draped fire custodians.
Pour encourager les autres the random staged effects and
scripted weapon strikes startled the night shades. Fiat bullets spang off
surfaces and zing by into panes. Is it real or is it memorase? Blood or made up
make up. Cherry red chapstix kiss of death or ketchup bleached bones in their
billions? We have come to the point where all has become, No13 Routemaster
found on the Moon, world.
The real stasis no more real than the staged and the staged
is now our reality halting regurgitated in vomitoria involuntary memoria. Everything
is paused, within reemitted remitted violence.
As you know one does like to dwell in the last big one here
at this oasis in an ocean of poisonous swill. Why?
Well it was real and we know it was real because the Crown
declared a state of reality death. They only do that when the stage play has
got out of hand and reality breaks through. Unfortunately it required all the
favours called in on every level such that the scrip script and cryptstage are
no more. That Globe was consumed entirely by theft.
Creeping under the glass through the fragrance and spice
shadows an unexpected hand pulls at mine. “Come with me to where the song was”
I hear in clear.
And she took and brought me
to a place in which those who had been there had been as flaming fire, and,
when they wished, they appeared as men. And she brought me to the place of bright
greyness, and I saw the empty places of the luminaries and she took me to the
had been living green baize. The empty thrones, the smashed crystal, the bones
of eaten men. All was cigar silenced, all was smoked dust blown.
“They have all gone, you fool” she listed me. “The map no
longer sings and the table is dead.” You should know. “Why do you think so many
have come into this world again?” will asked “Which side are you? This
reflection or the dead? Are you going to pierce their thin film?”
I tuned alone, abandoning my guide. She waved no more.
Everything was as my friend had insisted, chaotic without mind, and the stage
was applied magic bringing life from out of the surround. No realty, no landed justice,
all float. As above, so below. Should the surface be stilled ever stop
reflections then this universe would go.
All is thoughtful destruction of incision coherence.
No wonder.
