Born and Bled (Infinite Dismay)

Born and bred, here
Cattle tread, here
Fucking dead, here

Waltz about with dreams of fruition
Inhibition, the iron fist of “the white man’s” mission
Unholy submission to higher gods, hired gods,
Gods in office buildings with felt-tipped pens,
Apartments in the city.

Teach us, the children of the lord God’s world,
That we are intertwined with the divine,
That there is nothing we have been assigned
But to realise the (capital a) All in the (lower case a) all;
The gigantic beach ball that baby Buddha plays with
On this mysterious beach of sandy stars
Laughing at nothing long into the night.

Drape that flag over your back,
Like you know this land;
You’ve just been shown a plan.

If your perception of a sound mind were presented to you
As the wretchedness of insanity
You would beg for what you now see as craziness…

The mind is not sound;
It makes sounds.
Create with your two big hands;
there are no others.
(Not a call to arms,
just a reminder that you do have two).

Why was I raised as a life supported
by the havoc wreaked by others?
As the programmed un-holiness of routine;
the endless murmurs of dying loops,
spinning and spinning and spinning
and winning and winning and winning.

Like it wasn’t enough to be born into the fall
The Devil must flaunt his incessant triumph in my face
The disgrace of being a shoe, unlaced, defaced
Left encased and ready to be erased;
Cattle bred to fuck, be slaughtered
and perpetuate the projected violence
of the archetypal arm swinging the axe.

The Man at this bloody helm.

And this Man still does not know why he does as he does;
But he does, and so in this manner he will do
Until the Other eye is open.

If I am god, the skies are blue
And you, my brother
You are god, too.