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Black seeds and others



Half dead in our sleep, we missed the
sowing festival of construction, of
pomposity and power, in the hours of
our time. The saplings are now growing,
watered with blood and puke and scum.
Now we can also bleed and puke and die.
We can bleed and puke and die now.


The air smells pungent, the fire oppressively
hot and so intolerable. The soul cannot take
it anymore when the earth goofs up in the
troubled waters. Fuck the ether. The
authority — rubber-stamp hordes of farcical
plays and carbon copies of detached heads
— builds on their whims. On us they trampled
with their shit-smeared foot. If this is reality, let it
be guillotined. Year in and year out, violence
comes knocking on our head, violence comes
as the uninvited guest, violence comes so
menacingly — we are bleeding hate of the times.


Animal urges, when the stomach is full, they
are restrained. And us, a thousand stomachs appetise
our urges, filling with the scum and puke. Stolen,
looted, the stomachs become paunches of malign that
cast shadows of misery on us and deceive the illusion
of advancing times. Our march is in the revolution
of the earth — but only so precisely violent, so
predictable, so out of order, and so constantly
backward in the evolution of animals — that spans
from one foothill to another.


I see the drapery that conceals the view from
the foothill of Cheiraoching. It is becoming
so true. It is inside. The reality is scum and puke.





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