The Door Glides Open. Clicks Shut
They are on the other side now.
You are here with me, an impossible worm, a parasite.
You have left your bulky conscience behind; free form, in the bloodstream,
wriggling to the heart.
The arteries are congested with worms.
Feed me, love me, make much of me. --- C. R.
Fill yourself with my ideas, utter my ideas to others, replicating; repeat,
sodomize, split until my ideas will father further ideas, proliferate axiomatic
lies, until my progeny forms an immense cosmology, a creed, an ethos by
which entire civilizations tremble, erect themselves cathedrals, bloat tumours,
shiver with ague, cackle with disbelief. (My dust, God, will be as numberless
as the shining dust that lights the night sky, as numberless as the sand
on the ocean floor, will fill the crevices of all human hearts that fall
into misunderstanding and sorrow, the fissures that pry open misunderstanding
between all lovers. I will be present at the center of all new pain, all
hatred, and all pity.)
A lavish red and gold brocade is unfurled in front of you.
On this Byzantine pattern is spread an enormous array of fingers, hearts,
breasts, pomogranates, claws, salad, gilded in gold leaf.
Six months in the underworld: my cold hand in yours.
I love you now, even now.
I love because, otherwise, the resentment would destroy you, leave nothing
in its wake.
My love is transmuted stuff.
Platinum dipped in ferric oxide, doused in triplicate silver. Wound in mercury.
The magnificent cry in the dark:
I have found it.
What have you found?
The entrance, the entrance, the entrance to the door, the one that opens
with a silver key.
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