Monday, February 9, 2009

Circle of life, Circus of death

The clock ticks in a sinister motion. There will be a chain reaction that will create a cess-pool of lives. Interrupted, violated and disrespected. The excreta of human intolerance at its copious worst. Gritty with bigotry. Blood stained and mucus filled. Putrid with the decadence of a misconstrued faith. The alarm of anti-climax. Deafeningly loud and lingering. The energies of the echoes will float hauntingly in the air. Swollen with blighting grief. Nightmares realized in the fraction of that heavy second. Hopes, dreams, smiles, memories, visions, hallucinations, delusions and perceptions, all breached. The dark messiahs over-timing. Gliding over the singed, mangled flesh. Collecting and allotting souls. The appetites of vultures whetted somewhere, satiated somewhere.

The pigeons will disperse flapping their wings uncontrollably. Some will get caught in the cloud of holocaust and char to death. The dust will be impregnated with corporeal remains. It will settle in time. Not too long. Footprints of life will run across the dust again. The kin will pray for revenges and retributions. Places will carry that eerie aftermath. Legends will profuse the underbelly. Cycles of karma will resume. The bitch will start menstruating again.

Broken ghosts will haunt broken terrains. White lights so elusive. At night the street lamps will illuminate a morose spot of debris. A monument will stand in ashes of decrepitude, waiting to be resurrected like the phoenix. The winds will stay put, or so it may seem (only the pollen can tell). Each face and each flake will recount a story. Stories of flesh torn apart and eaten with mythical lust. Dreams half chewed and spat out. Dreams switched off and shut out. Unsaddled horses of the night gallop every now and then. 

The silence suspended in the air cracks with a piercing scream. Sorrows linger like the stench of decaying carrion. Eerie trails lead to the end of sundry creations. Zombies would be made out of memories. Thirst, quest, longing, unbelonging. All mummified in the sarcophagus of that fission. Doom box.
Bada boom. Bada bam.

art title – explosion
artiste – Peeter Allik
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The Vice Buddha said...

U left me speechless!

Sitting here, I could feel the shivers down my spine.Of course, the cycle of menstruation is endless. The difference here is that its erratic, and unpredictable. The bytch lies in its lair somewhere, and the blood squirts out at some place else! Its not fair!

But of course, the kin cannot do much but pray! And so do I!

rUpiE said...

Did you meet anyone named rUpIe. Please be more positive, I am enough of a dark side to life. !

sorcerer said...

hey Buddha, thanks a lot for the appreciation.
Yours humbly,

and Rupie, you de-pink me and thanx much for that ;)