As I was in full and celestial flight of my mid-youth I heard a voice to say that it was my fate to lose all that I had made or won just to sink into an unforgiving grave.
I doubted this like any other rumour of youth and carried on so far above all others whom I now know dealt in death so poorly - all of them accepting the servitude and not the mastery of their own peril.
They were so convinced, in fact, that they would have me believe it too, to spread their wicked fates more thinly and thus less hard to bare and conspired, as plague, to rob me of my very life which was so bounteously alien to theirs.
Their phantom lies of life and death proposed so confidently sung -- a choir of idiots - handing out pilfered lessons from a cardboard box.
Live! Die! they wail, missing teeth.
I refuse to live your folded life and die in the flames of your own death because I do not accept them!
I am the master of my own creation.
I am my own crooked messiah; I have saved myself from simmering damnations in a sea of sodden fools and I do not reside above or below your conjured rivet-less stage.
I am too far away for that.
You are the string-less puppets of my own ordained screen and you are performing very well indeed. Play on! Play on! Touchstones, play on!

Have you seen the motorcar magazines?
If that is a metaphor then it is a sad one.
I will be a tyrant of my own proclamations and a pike-man at Bannockburn.
I will sell you jack rabbits a'shack Mississippi Moon sky plain full of night-less wonders.
Sweet tasting super juice among reeds and the skirt of a young banished girl flying wild in technicolour plumage high on a cool Delta red moon breeze.
The same brook breath that chimes in and wrestles with the branches of trees and the fur of prairie creatures.
The dust of the bedroom floor is the dust of the road too.
The wolf is a good friend and he travels too through the night.
Hiding in shadows of the faint moonlight spread like a quilt over the parched hot earth.
He is well adjusted to this world during which most are asleep and elsewhere; his soft pads caress sand and stone and fibre and his sobriety seeks and feels each thistle hair, each hidden player of the cricket choir, the course and the current of the wandering air and all others, the beetles hopscotch journey through hell; architect of sand like mountain boulders, and though he is not of man, he knows there is something lurking in the dark, some thing that makes him tread quickly over the open road and peering down a heavenly corridor of corn and suspect the worse, then spooked, moves on.
Stalked by some unknown enemy behind the darkness and beyond the light of red dawn.
With a single breath, he knows the majesty of our unreason.

The small Red Indian girl's neck and breast makes me swell with love, with night, with her grey brown ancestors.
I taste the pines and conifer needles beneath her skin, the icy spring and fresh pools full of glimmering trout.
If they do come looking, tell them this is where I lie.

And to those who are do not play at theatre; the malcontent, the malevolent, the mad.
I beseech you to toss off these tailored robes that fit your rounded shoulder too well and pick up your drum to beat out the sound of the death of everything before their vacant eyes.
Everything that is plain, that is grey must perish.
To make your humble creator proud that when you fell bloodline to the stars and inherited the sky, the earth and the heart of all that is that you sounded the first call to arms.
The call to bring on the death of everything so that we will no longer have to conjure our own illusive heavens.

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