Incantation – Song of The Forbidden Land

Blank brains arranged in row

after row after row of colloidal masses of

pink and grey blobs floating

in glass jars full of formaldehyde.

Inky blots and squiggles on grainy sheets

dirty and coarse,

Moving and wriggling around,

A convulsing Rorschach on

a cyclic, regurgitating

pattern, horrific.

Like the snapping canines of a

relentless pareidolia,

Like a biting off,

like God hacking off, one piece at a time,

with a straight razor,

and endlessly chewing,

on live action camera, his own immortal

Genitalia.

Of blood, bones, and muscle –

It nothing cares.

Of cars, perfume, rockets -

It knows naught. For the unknown energy dark

Enough to defy gravity, for rotting bodies

Dancing above and

Beneath the pregnant Earth, it gives not

A bleeding, deliberate fuck. For the twitching limbs

Of the decapitated

Son, for the spilled epiploon of the disemboweled

Mother, it owes no one, nothing.

The gifts of vital blood and nourishing flesh,

it spits out into the crackling contagion

of Being transubstantiated

into Becoming,

like a black cat in a dark box going

supernova in the center the galactic

dance floor.

It only honors

the graven images of transience

carved by the word makers on

Her glass epitaph,

Chanting the incantation of matter,

standing guard over

the tabula rasa of her unmarked grave.

It only reveres

the immutable Voice rumbling

down the web of sparkling dendrites,

(Those raw nerve ends of divine ejaculation!)

of primordial coagulate memory:

“Do not resuscitate, on pain of death!”

For even spring is barren on

this forbidden land.