Clone Day

Clone Day

What I like most in this misdirection of  language that points one way and looks another, yes while shaking no, is that same dream where I stood next to Maiden’s oldest son in the pews, singing as the hijinks proceeded, very friendly as they made up some kind of jello into a cranberry baby in a carriage.

We attribute to the pumpkin the feelings of a man alone on the steps of universe, an imagined metaphor behind him. He puts obvious power points up on the wall of the metaphor, bracketed with illuminations like “I am powerless over compulsion. My life is unmanageable, but I want to do good,” That he is a liar is also confessed to the  innocent cave by light of torches of fat. These he shared with the giants and salvages in the Japanese. “Chaos resists where most I suffered.” It was unmanageable. We are powerless over the primitive.

Screwy acronyms like MOAB, Mother of All Bombs, tip the mystics off to vertical shafts nine craters deep  to the center of earth. America New Atlantis is locked in the ninth vault, as Virgil wrote in the great Seal of the U.S. How else could there be a psychic dictator with the mouths of Presidents inviting a secret guiding spirit on the Colonization Scheme?” This is not meant to alarm, any more than the news that there are 500 pumpkins colonizing on Saturn. They prefer austere environs. As long as they’re rumbling up and down with the Cantwell Titans, the landing on Mars is not imminent.

They like psychological disfigurement in this world, remove the memory of dislocated joints with a stultifying powder, an anesthetic escape. The mind cannot recall its stunting of the spine, burning the face, the incisions, manipulations, restraints. The drug deadens, and if remembered, the anesthetic masks the pain. While Consciousness reconstructs by removing the bandage, the pain of realization of a lifetime is denied by professionals. Trauma and consequent memory pose a dilemma. Without memory they could have gone mutilating forever.

The thing that makes this culture is the clone, but if you clone a dog at the end of its life and bring it back with the same genes in a pup, all the learning is gone, all the shared experience that made you trust. Likewise when it comes to a planet, cloned Earth Day, brings back out of a test tube what was lost, to play it all again, but it lacks the same integration as yourself and the pup. However it’s not a cow.

I began to think us mind controlled before the transhumans came. The semiotic behind-the-hand language keyed up secret trips we had made to the old hat DuPont Circle of the District, the left ear of secret architecture inhabited by invisibles. Get cozy with these subjects behind the matrix. Entertainment patriotism preoccupies the front pyramids. When a citizen of peace brings mass murder into public policy they say he's a good guy. That New Order aught Virgil, before Homer, revival of the gods Apollyon, or Abaddon, preordered at  the Denver Pergamos a gigantomachy altar of acceptance. Revolution is not what we thought.

I think I am angry about this, but it hurts my observations. Looking at these thoughts, discovering in consciousness what one would never want to know, a special gravity propels the relation of landscape, language and thought, when it is not on stage performing. Realities of cause and effect compress. They had not figured it out when they cloned the ears. The different relation of natural and spiritual in this land parallels our own customs and language. Astronaut-anthropologists  who plummet the depths overlook the backgrounds of our world in theirs.This was a mythless people before the horror stories of true massacre, who disbelieved everything emancipated from the shackles of belief. The clean house attracted squatters who cannibalized themselves one should say, eating the very life that gave them death, but having eaten effigies of disbelief, they were so superior they could not judge who should retain life and who not. 

It’s certainly too much to believe public events are staged when one hardly believes commercials are. Evidence is only necessary because careerists in the news find themselves marginalized if they say so. That iridescent shine in the eye of the model who takes the drug is airbrushed. Events are staged so much we read them as real, hardly believe greater events are made to drive sympathy or anger, manipulate minds of masses. That the greater whole still needs manipulating is a comfort. The job is incomplete. It’s end however is dark. A clue comes for a moment because we have been thrown out of the circle by some chance. The mind skips and we see differently for a second.  

They think their arms are pencils Huge giant moths were loosed. Too big to see, the moths in themselves were supremacists, grown to the great absurd. The collective laments, that the loss of these moths creates a mythlessness, is utterly infected with myth. So as I ride the subway watching the natives chew on their arms, blood dripping down their pants legs, I see the same behavior on the freeways, shrouded in mist, or dust if you must be literal. Among people who believe nothing has a nature in itself, they cannot see themselves chewing. pencils.