Tuesday, March 30


This, dear sir is an old story about an old land. It didn’t have beautiful trees, or therefore birds or music. It had a large ocean like the moon, appearing ahead without the trees, and in it many little seas, rivers, ponds and natural lakes. It glistened and sparkled like a branch of stars. There, beneath many layers of the beauty, stinking in earth of black soil and dark skies-where it rained like every day, lay the junkies. They lay hatching over the grass all day, with hands up in the air supporting their air of the hair of the heir, just pointing out the nitty-gritty of the whole absolute affair. There was a narrow, engraved passage through which it would be let out to the beauty, where alone they saw dreams in colours, and the smoke floated by below all the clouds across the world. The fish, the masters of the old land, saw it and loved it. It was scaly, and long, it slithered like god’s equal himself, and the dark net guised his evil. They were attracted to their new god, and drank it all in. like the most delicate poison, it lay slurping every bit and sucking at every little tit. They thus breathed for many years, many centuries, and aeons. They would grow up a day in the forever, and float in the haze and go high, high up with the shooting stars, and when their eyes opened they saw clear in the air, the rainbow. Kissing its many colours despite the mother ocean’s brilliant colours of the shades, forgetting in an instant’s most valuable time all the time of their real blue world’s life. It is in such pleasure steeping that the smoke gently ruptured their gills and they lay flattened in to lungs and dead. Dead like an old man’s little daughter up in between the bricks. That instant of time, the narrow passage cracked and the engraving caught on the fire and unfurled its many branches. The junkies breathed through the layers and saw the world. That was the word.

They nurtured the world, and made cement and choked it. It sodomised the dead fish and made them humans. They evolved faster, leaping through vertical concentric circles to emerge as apes in that magical sequence. That is how we were born. Junkies therefore, in the real mythology hidden between steps in destiny’s labyrinth, were adorned as gods, for mis-producing an entire race of seeking for such, such beauty.

Our ancestors banished real eden from the top of the spinning top, stopping it by a little finger by its neck. Anyway, anyhow and anywhere, they didn’t get Eden, but they got us our dying pale blue earth. Eden is the red glowing blood apple.