Death And The Bombshell

"Death makes angels of us all
And gives us wings
Where we had shoulders
Smooth as raven's
Claws"

~~~ Jim Morrison, The Doors, "The Severed Garden"

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Death asked the Bombshell: is Life what you think it is?

And the Bombshell said: well, Life is a

Deep. It is a drilling. Thrilling deepening.

Deep roots. Roots. Deeply tangled masses. Tangled with

Sleep. Deep sleep. And shallow. Deepness and shallowness of it all 

In the vessel brimming with

dreamfilledanddreamlessness.

Deep sleeplessness of

Sleeping roots tangled in the garden. 

(Tangledinthedarksoilbeneath.)

Yggdrasil's roots. Sleep entwined in

sinister umbilical coiling 

round and round

a strangling 

Birth. Asleep in a

brief awakening. Drops of mystic awakening

in an ocean of eternal sleep.

Tangled in the sleep nerves. Nerves tangled deep

with roots tangled at the base.

The base of the sleeping skull.

And Death said: No; it is not so.

And Death said: Life is a lot like Love.

Life is a rattattattattating away on

my windowpane – a crazy woodpecker pecking

away at glass instead of wood -

a machine gun firing away

As if his life depended on it.

Life, so said Death, is an

Explosion. Of cocks, balls, and cunt.

Of heads, limbs, and bones. Brain matter.

All rolled up in

Blood. In body fluids. Vomit. Faeces. Urine.

Tissues. In semen and vaginal mucus.

In sperm and ova,

Ripping and howling

through the membranes of a

cataclysmic, cosmic

Orgasm.

Bleeding out the

Placenta. And greater omentum.

Just like Love. Love. Shattering earth. Earth heaving.

Towering up in conical funnels.

From

Deep wounds. Crashing down.

Red hot lava shooting up miles in the air.

and boiling

Sludge running into chaotic homes – men, women,

Children yelling in madness and terror.

No Richter scale to measure

the seismic waves.

No epicenter.

That is Love. And that is Life.

Then the Bombshell spoke.

And the Bombshell said to Death:

If this be true, then no need.

Needless. Grief need not expend itself.

Futile words. Wordless. Wordmakers be silent.

Faces be void. Frozen.

Because. 

No difference
Then.

Here, then, was Love. In

one hundred and forty pounds

Of enriched uranium.

Here was Life, then. In

two pounds or less than a kilo.

Mushroomed.

In gigantic, magnificent vision.

Like a billion 

Purple suns cascading. In a

Brilliant.

Celestial.

Fission.

In mid-air. And then, there

You were. Striding.

Riding your ashen horse.

Angel horse - immortality on wings. Pale

(with ashen inexorable face) and

Hooves clip-clopping. rapid staccato beats

Ringing around the two-mile radius of a city,

(ofacityoraworld)

Flattened. Blackened. 

One limitless second broke the

Seventh seal.

I was just a means, then,

To the End.