When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

Skeletons Of Society

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Pestilence, vermin on the verge on madness,

championing the breakdown, the fall, the implosion,

encroaching upon the source of life, the womb,

they laugh and toast and make merry on the bones

of their victims, on the remains of days consumed and

defiled. At the expense of breath and spirit they advance,

foul, cannibalistic, pestilential existence seeking victims,

seeking hosts and substrate to infect and rot.

Cracks begin to tear up the dome,

they eat up the sheen, the purr of life with tar and soot,

strangling inhalation,

mangling the bonds of innovation and existence,

spilling the precious guts of today onto the great

pond of the stagnant, our stuck and recycled

yesterday devoured by minutes and hours that regurgitate

themselves into form, patterns atavistic, restrictive, locked into step,

goose-stepping on the face of sense, to the past’s faded tunes,

a recurring nightmare haunting life with its wraith reverberations,

can you hear the mist singing in the night,

descending on the dreams of men and women, infiltrating

their visions, squelching their spirits,

crushing it like bone and cartilage in an industrial blender?

Do you hear them feasting on the future generations,

tearing flesh like beasts in the night,

ripping sinew and constitution to shreds?

Do you hear their drunken cries, the gurgling blood,

the rabid cheers, the frenzy in their toasts?

The sirens you hear at night are the wails of those they mangle,

the pleas of the dying as they’re eaten alive,

consumed by the cannibal kings of today:

the small men, the small women, the regents of civilization.

Peel your eyes, unplug your ears, and you’ll hear their

yells coming through every speaker, every connection,

every communication platform.

It sounds like a party. It is a party.

An unholy congregation for those

with blood on their jaws and tar in their hearts,

feasting on Earth’s living body,

calling it progress. Calling it natural.

Calling it quits on reason and common sense.

Calling it civilization.

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