TEMPLE HQ
THIS DREAM AGAIN, DEJA VU!
12-8-2021
A broken wheel turning in interlocking gears grinding out brass sparks upon the backs of the sweating workers turning levers in sunless labyrinths of metals upon metals. Men who sleep on stones are beaten to death in dark alleys between the factory walls.
Chase locking doors down a perfume river until the sun sets and the portal closes, until Moloch rests his jaw and all the daughters can rest safe (ha ha), until the priest waves his hand and the signal for STOP is given and the men who sleep on stones will never be beaten again.
Run out the clock down a perfume river until the sun sets to the final cold and in the darkness we’ll all be equal. Wait for the killing-breath of God to snuff out even the most arrogant lights of humanity and laugh laugh laugh while the wretched are bones in the snow.
Kill her kill her kill her and find the darkest place to hide the body and maybe the labyrinth is old enough to find a shadow where they don’t look anymore, maybe there’s a little rotting corner of this brass tomb where the heat has vanished and the natural stone creeps in at the seams of the metal plates and if you really believe it God will be there waiting with a laugh and a smile for all his good children who killed her killed her killed her.
The labyrinth is made of brass, the labyrinth is so dark, the labyrinth has no shadow, the labyrinth is always hot, the labyrinth goes on and on deeper than any human ever should. The labyrinth bleeds naphtha, the labyrinth scorns sweat and flesh, the labyrinth bites its teeth made of broken cogs and hateful shouts on time to a marching-tune 1-2 and through.
Isn’t this preferable to how it used to be? Remember your ancestors in that outer darkness, starving, freezing, how many women hung from trees in the time before the labyrinth? How many children suffered decades at the hands of their fathers instead of a merciful end in the mouth of the great agglomeration?
Its legs of iron and hide, its head of iron and horn, its torso of iron and bone, its arms of iron and copper. There’s a fire that never ends inside it and all the daughters disappear down that open jaw and their souls sink to hell. It shits naphtha and the fathers scramble for the tiniest bite of excrement.
He hates her, he hates her more than he hates the beast and maybe if he builds his own beast he can kill her and shit enough naphtha to power the world in his head.
The labyrinth is always hot and always brass, the color of candleflame without day, without night.
The labyrinth has a heartbeat fixed on rigid timetables that never cease. Half the slots are broken and the metal grinds and men who sleep on stones die and the heart beats again to the next.
Blood splashes like paint on brass walls as the minotaur finds another graceful baby.
The labyrinth is so dark, the labyrinth refuses the luxury of night.
The labyrinth beats like a drum.
The labyrinth is so hot and so dark.
The labyrinth will kill you for being that humid.