No fear, no hate – just sorrow. We were walking in the sunlight cold. We were holding hands, but we weren’t together. We’d never been together. Down by the river to the drowning fields. Pronounced deadly on arrival – aborted in sensate focus – all is madness. It was a long time ago, but not too far to walk.
This is a fear planet – predicated on war and hatred where women drown their children and priests set themselves on fire; war, plague, famine, death - all orchestrated by madmen. No enemy, no friction; no friction, no heat; no heat, no life.
My mosquito enemies wake me – their buzzing a minor irritant – more bug juice is required – ease my nerves. Pour me a tall one, my muse has failed me – I’ll shoot the bitch. This is a war universe. No conflict, no passion; no passion, no life. My edge has withered – it no longer cuts cleanly. I have a bloody mouth and I enjoy the kill – if it’s clean. Pornography kills slowly, too slowly for my taste. I’ll have a tall one, with ice.
Some people just can’t get out of bed in the morning – no energy, no passion, no conflict, no life. The neighbours are spying on me, I know because I’ve been watching them - curtain twitching bastards. The main one is still young, but he shouldn’t get much older. I believe that cosmic processes are at work – I can feel them tremble. There’s an earthquake coming – a giant tsunami of shit heading in their direction. I burned entrails as an offering to my God – we shall see. No question asked goes unanswered. Most folks don’t know that. Me - I never did nothing – it was my neurosis that done it. I’m an innocent man, though that was never my intention.
This is a fear planet – a world of friction and heat, of hunger and pain. Where is the love in such a place? Is it hidden in the space in my brain? Is it lost in the layers of complexity of my mental nodes? Unpinned by the wonders of science the human spark flickers dim in the cortex, but bright enough to illuminate the race in filaments of hope too radical to comprehend. Love is wired into the brain pan, the co-operators built the world. The vagaries of intent are manifest in our every gesture. I wonder what you think. Do you wonder what I think you think? You can read me like a book, my pages are much like yours. Is that what makes us human? Is that where the love is?