I keep getting told something meaningful will come of all this, but I’m doubtful. l can’t exist out in the open of this, like an animal I am wise. So you bow your head and agree to the conditions. But this place has no conditions, only promises and pain. Promises written in ink, pain that wounds to the bone. This isn’t me, my profile is deception. But you don’t care, you buy me anyway. I do mean you, the one digging. This raw meat encased, this raw pain uneaten. This deception that anything matters at all. The reasons we write this, the ink that defines us, the tongue that betrays all our wounds oozing from mouth to mouth. Secret to secret. Wet bed to another body. Diseases with curves, meant to seduce anything that will lick itself like an animal licks blood and pus from a wound. He, the wise star man told me I was that guy that fell between the cracks in the Grand Canyon and had to saw off his arm to survive. He told me that was my life, my divine mission and duty. The thing I cannot escape. Self inflicted wounds. Searching for this body of pain. He said it was big. Size does matter and I intend to prove it. And so, since I am only aware like an animal is aware mysteriously that dawn is approaching as it returns to its secret lair to hide, I live secretly undercover with weapons. I wait in the dark. Seeking myself in various parts. Hurting. Finding the infection in the eyes of many, but me. Where did I go when I hid inside of you. The devouring of child into mother. Animals do this, as a source of protection. Something a human box mind will never understand and thus the species would die out unless the ancestral demons did not have an incubation period. Wound, womb.
Same thing. Weapon, wisdom. Only those between the crag of two ridges with nothing but death left to hold them will know me. And so soon I’ll go because talking always must end as crying takes over- until all limbs have been severed. I know you’re holding on. I know corpses forget their names and yet still haunt those breathing. I know breath turns to gray and stays that way even for lifetimes. When the pain is the effect and not the cause. That is my message. Hurt, hurt everything breathing and clean the sky out of me. The wise star man told me not to be afraid. That even once it’s gone, it never disappears. The earth pain is what I’m talking about. Hard bone that wants back in. It’s not even you doing the fucking, it’s all your dead uncles and cousins. That’s what’s so sad. The deception of hands. I know nobody really buys my magic talk. Well in my magic silence I’m taking everything you own. Even me, piece by piece back to hole before the light rises in the east once again. Before the sky seems clear of my memory. When birds fly and sing to distract from the real song. Crying, weeping, searching for eyes. A way out, I see you above me. Noticing nothing but your own hunger. This is a very sick world. Possessing it’s inhabitants. I am forced to live hidden therefore in the humming of night. The star man told me I needed to start digging for gold to get back into balance. He said, “stop carrying men on your back…little baby animals who will deceive you with their open mouths. You. ” He said, ” you.” I understand him better than most. I was watching the river leave as he spoke and there was nothing in that water but tears, this earth is because of me. Not around and outside of me. This pain is because of you, not because I’m separate and available. These words are because I’m cutting my own body apart, limb by limb looking for stars that got stuck in the avalanche. That was birth by the way. The avalanche. I fell by accident, even though there really are no accidents only interventions…as an overlap of time that allows one more chance to escape…and now the only thing to do is sacrifice to be free. Enter the pain you create. Not because you want in, but because you want out. So the deception is like transverse writing, evil. And meant only for the killer to read…face it, that backwards song is me. Sharada Devi