TEMPLE HQ
THIS DREAM AGAIN, DEJA VU!
12-27-2022
Down, down, down. The southerly course of it only serves to heighten the sense of despair, as accumulations of filth drift with our craft, depositions of each runoff we see, each dumping, cars parked and swollen hands throwing rust and oil into the water, bird shit mixed with microscopic beads of poison, and the world screaming in agony by the scouring of our pyrographic course down and down.
Now - turn - the roaches are burning in the tire fire lit beneath the bodies of self-serving suicides propped up on the railspikes overlooking the scenic boulevard, knife-pointed men leering with toothéd grins, liquor flows like rainwater from the accidents and seeping holes carved - the bellies are fertile with the marks of the world. Blooming, like, trees, fungal colonies spread on their skin in impasto swathes. Their brightly colored runoffs of clothing becomes contaminated from the inside, their own filth leeching into the fabric and turning it the foul odors of the world. The smell of plastic, the burn of the embers falling with a little gob of molten rubber. A few could happen by with an imagined language and threaten them to the ends of the river. Marching on. Ant colonies dig up the last remains of a coke bottle spilled last week. They say you can’t drop anything in America, twenties repurposed for a fight to break out over perceived slights in the nearest, cheapest. The knife-pointed men are a different class than the children, their clothes dirtier, their faces harder, their minds well beyond the child-like consciousnesses which animate the younger breed they’ve seen overrun the dark places. A real person died recently, one of those strapping bucks throwing her in the path of an oncoming train. “Serves her right”, the youngers would say, hip-thrusting to the delight of their patronizing allies. Some people just like to think like that. There’s a tendency among that crowd to martyr themselves, deriving a sexual thrill from starving themselves for an ungrateful child. This is of course, much to the greater delight of the spectators - to whom the majority of the thrill is given. Some men, and such real people are they, that the term could be said to apply to them at an almost platonic level, jiggle their distended guts in enormous pleasure, thick-fingered paws groping at their own atrophied genitals at the sight of it. The knife-pointed men are scared as they watch it - the only difference between a voyeur and an enemy is time, and it’s usually with cumstained trousers that the former cuckold turns into the greatest adversary. But so it goes - you cannot have children anymore, and even the knife-pointed men can acknowledge this as a perennial problem among those who waste themselves. There’s a curious sublimation then, almost as if apologizing, that they should kill themselves slowly when they rend their own flesh to cook it on a spit for their ungrateful and unwanting children. Charity is only vindicated by a dead body washing up on their front porch, because therein lies the continual thrill of the donation-box. That it could be stolen is not a threat, but a temptation, the possibility of humiliation looming as the shining city on a hill through which they can be paraded like lepers in the stockade.