Night dragon Rumours of twilight, dreamed superstitions, murmur my mind, with mediaeval fear. Armies, famines and people on the move dwindle with the peace as the fulcrum slips, epochs alternate, the virus mutates, and politicians lie through rictus grins hoping the meniscus will not rupture. The tarot reader smiles and turns the cards. The Hierophant reversed, she stops to think, perhaps a prophet, perhaps someone who calls for war on the armies of profit. It is unclear. Good and bad are the same. Everything is already outside time, woven in code in the fabric of space... I cannot tell. Something undecided. Do you have faith or do you have belief? Professor Dawkins presides in his thoughts. You will find it is all written in code. It’s in the fabric of the universe. The iron in your blood was created by the explosion of a distant star, selfish genes have formed the man that you are; random mutations lead to your being. As for your mind? Your thoughts are only memes: You are just a piece of engineering. It’s not just my belief, it is a fact. No. I said no questions. I’ve told you all. Go and believe, memetically infect the world with the truth before oblivion. On the street corner stands a prostitute. In the shadows her pimp is smoking crack, fissures in his eyes betray his chaos. Summer cannot come for him, nor autumn nor the joys of spring, he lives in winter, a minor detail in the pattern’s weave. She smiles. Do you want a little life dear? Do you want to know what it’s all about? Come and get a little human warmth dear. There is a brothel in your body dear, written in your blood from antiquity. The Madame that you need is in my mind. At home, the bible is the TV guide; a sacred text, a modern oracle for the larium of your household gods: Your brain washed with digitised perfection, wide screen, virtual actuality surgically faked on the cutting room floor. Love or war, all shall be revealed to you. All areas accessed, tabloid sex and drugs; in this writhing, pagan Colosseum the mob bays and glories in blood’s first trace. The ghost of laughter rips through the ruin. And somewhere in the freezing depths of space an ancient dragon sperm fires through the dark packed with frozen hydrocarbons, water, to refertilize this egg, start again, destroying the parasites with new life, where money and fame no longer exist. Outside time. Not even a memory. |
