The Terrible Mother

My internal compass is so brittle
Fracturing under the slightest pressure
I flounder to spot which way is south
In order to know the wintery darkness I should avoid

Winter is here
The decaying flesh of the living dead lurks in the marrow-deep frozen shadows
Feasting on shit and bones and cannibal broth
Giving the illusion of sight, of the ephemeral light

Some shadows belong in their own hell
Fuck it if conventional wisdom tells me I’m repressed, fuck it if my delusion makes me psychotic and depressed
I would rather be consciously sane than unconsciously disturbed and clinically insane

There’s a cure for that, as all Victorian women knew
Spread your legs, let the doctor in to cure your hysteria
Sex and sweat and deception, such a middle age game
Just like my current modern age regression, devolution, devil-lead rejection

Give progress a fucking chance.
My deepest apologies for the snobbish purism that raids and invades our divided lands
Says no one to no one
The year three thousand weeps and groans in childbirth for the generation that spat on their own salvation

I swear sometimes I don’t belong here
Neither in this culturally confused time or unfixed point in space
But where else would I be when this shit for me is all that ever will be?
The sun will always beat down upon me mercilessly
And the darkness will always coolly envelop me with it’s morbid tranquility
May as well use my earth bestowed eyes when they work and artificial night goggles for when they suffer inferiorly

Nothing is pristine, sterile clean
A heavenly bliss only remains limbo in disguise
But even if heaven fails, I embrace humanitarian madness
I embrace enduring empty promises of hope
And constant selfish highs of empathic sadness

See that that poor hobo in the street begging for spare change?
His existence is the epitome of meaning
Where nature devised a clever gap between polarities
And divided Her cruel unequal lots among men
Testing ultimately to know which of Her children really cares for Her whimsical tyranny

Yes, I will give him a sandwhich, then watch as the approaching thick black tornado sweeps him up into Her orbit, merciless in Her judgement and helpless in Her diet of ritual child sacrifice
I shall grumble and complain and rejoice and make merry under Her wicked ways
Because She is our true mistress
And She is no respector of persons

Solomon knew his philosophies well
Well enough to be lead astray by the Chaos.
From Chaos we all arose, to Chaos we all return
Dwelling coeternally in a derranged primordial soup
Believe my witness
Still my soul has not left.

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