In Response to A Study In Cow Pelt And Citrus
We, humans, are just the prologue to this story. And we have been like two flickering feathered flames burning from inside out. ‘kissed, merged, and melted into one and other, we drowned in a pale reflectionless puddle formed my our melted remains. The time of us shallowly slipping ourselves into inanimate intimate has ended. What comes of it? Nothing? Precisely nothing. Are feelings unfeeling, without dreams of their own? You stamp yourself into them, squashing out what life they have. In your story, it is only you and none of them. Making them feel feelings just kills their own they once kept hidden inside. Lost in your feelings, you fail to see their true-selves. And yes, Eddie Cruise, you are wrong, and the worlds of the feeling and the unfeeling know this. So, take my advice: Take what feeling you still have and give it up. The world has no need for your filthy fetish."
We Danced in darkness with our last glimmer. We'd say goodbye if only we still had voices. As shadows melt and fade in the all-encompassing, all-consuming flame. We are gone, but the tale of identity sings on.
Part 1. The Button
All our signatures fade into ink.
The Red Button is hung on a wire ripped out of its socket by the blast. It’s still dangling from where creamy droosie drowsy sighs of electricity used to vibrate and course through.
It's time for you, The Button, to hang and swing in the wind that is now left haunting and hollow. We could cry out and no one would be left to hear us. "You did it, didn't you?" Nothing. No one. Never. Inward, now empty. Outward now bitter a mocking silly silence.
The button cracked, its sliver of a self seeped away in laughing cracking mocking silly silence. The button is cracked, The button has hung itself.
When that finger pressed and curled, it was like worms in our skulls writhing as they eat away at our soul's last sung song. The curtain fades, the finger curled, shiver, shutter at repressing the memory. The button is pressed.
The Cracked Button lies: No finger. Not mine. Not me. Never answered. No. No lines. No rhyme. No puppet strings. No self. Never. No shine. No light. No cloud. And no kiss.
The Cracked Button pressed. But was the world all strange and amiss just an abyss?
The Cracked Button hangs, but now nothing hangs in the balance. Broken bottles lie on the ground in the wasteland empty and cracked and smiling. That shiny soul of self sung in silence while The Cracked Button hung right where it was found.
As self sang in silence, the book now closed around the shelf, no author, no pen, no ink. Invisible, visibly simple, and now invincible, it drowns.
Fall and fall and fall, nothing is lost. There's no seed of selves in the ground, nothing will grow again. A nothing is lost just flying shivering soggy withering pointless silent rhyme, blind and depthless, death and a depth soul never sung.
The shiny soul of self sung in silent, while THe Button hung right where it's found.
Part 2. The Mushroom Cloud
The Button was pressed and born in the Cloud so high, oh Mushroom Cloud. Both dreamer and dream, we looked up to the sky and used to see our dreams in you, dear Cloud. And you used to look down and see your dreams in us. But from above you could do nothing but watch as we tear and burn. We used to gaze up at you once. Always you shined above, your song was in our dreams and your dreams in us.
Remember, we once looked up to you, Cloud, you were yourself in whatever stories we saw in you, and you uplifted us out of ourselves
And, Mushroom Cloud, remember you were once in the ground. Your shrooms in soil danced, dreamy soggy worms cried and writhed, livid and alive. We seemed dead from the outside. You planted your seed, your soul song, in our dreams. Our eyes glazed over. We slipped up inside of you as we slipped you down our throats. Now only you, The Mushroom Cloud, your soul song remains. Our selves melted away as we did the day the blast. Mushroom Cloud, keep your head up, send up your soul song it will be heard once more.
Oh mushroom cloud of the ground, rise and burn, sweet child of destruction, rise. All dreams are gone, because the dream and all meaning is a light that is bright, white, and blind. You only grow in sadness now, sweet Mushroom Cloud.
Look up just like they used to look up at you. Burnt out of self, you’re tired now, sweet Mushroom Cloud, eating all and all alone but your lonely lost in nothing.
Melt away bit by bitter bit, and cry lemmings' tears until there is nothing left, away in the corner. Lose yourself today. Guilt and screaming, the weight of all you ate. We loved you and now we live on in you as our dreams used to.
Mushroom Cloud, you fell upon us, we are now just puddles that sept into and reflected upon itself one final time, before we fade into the irradiated air.
Everlasting eyes, eyes with images scorched into them now. Why? Was it all lovely lies or blind lines we followed Inward? Are we born onto nothing? Or maybe stories would grow again, seeded from a soul song sung in hope. Our light was not snuffed, no, it was far too bright and too meaningful to fade.
Epilogue or “Tomorrow”
The shiny soul sang its last song. The Button was pressed as Mushroom Cloud outstretched.
Mushroom Cloud grew all alone and grew up inside itself, while the shiny self sang in silence. The Button cracked and hung right where it was found. And for us, we have faded, kisses, flames and shadows and souls all melted away while whaling. We went off inside that bright quiet night, gone to find another of that flickering feathered light.
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