The Tipping

At the mind's edge is something

that sits restlessly, hungrily, waiting

for something to pinch the gooey lobe.

This formless, shapeless, senseless

something is the bleeding work of a

heartless cadaver; he made it implacable.

When he coated that warm, glowing,

golden, growing jelly, into the crevices,

there was a messianistic purpose, meaning:

But the shapeshifter had such a strange,

disturbing, purposely yearning,

stressfully egging, gloating intent.

Because underneath the curious,

incontrollable, sustaining structure,

the skull that shields and binds the muck.

Inserted was Gaia, gay and gouging,

so everlasting, and so enervating,

and so unnerving, and so evading.

And at what point does such striving,

and such streaming, while screaming,

can we find the elusive answer?

When we approach, a bit audacious,

but so afraid, acquiring aura,

also observed, he starts us over.

Because this is tipping, falling

forward, freely floating, feeling

fettered, he chains us in again.

Then spun around in insane circles,

realizing, rendered useless, running

toward rabble rousing, flunking, failing, fucked.

I have no idea, what he wants,

does he wail when he sees the woe?

Does he cry when he sees the blood?

Sometimes while stopping thinking,

I stop to wonder if I was pondering,

a strange, and desolate demise.

He must have known that we'd go hungry,

that we'd soon be thirsty and parched and

far from perfectly peachy, but infertile.

That when his smile soon surrenders,

and his eyes, they grow enormous, here lies

the end of the age, here is the beginning before us.

Started anew, but are we still not swine?

But no, no, it tipped before, it tips again.

It tips again. And out pours, for the final time:

Out pours the pure.