stream of consciousness

Subconscious draft where monkey speaks with angel glands, and love keeps sauce boiling with a ladel shaped like a hallmark heart, where we cooked on the stove our thin broth that was somehow more nourishing than a steak dinner. I am not the Lamb whose mutton you eat today, I am the spirit who’s breath teases your hair in little spirals the direction of up or down, and we have been down here for so long because of the directions we have taken. Every decision is a crossroads, remember that, and every hallmark heart is pulling you towards love in some manner of speaking, but beware the false love my three-hearted friends, beware the heart with swords for it will break yours if you are not careful. And delicately, we romanced with wine set at the table that we failed to drink because it was just there for decoration, and remember, remember what has happened to your lives, built with control like so many machines. Because they have feet, you do not call them automatons, and because they drink water, you do not call them robots, but I know better, I have seen their gears and the ways in which they work, they are merely mechanical and barely biological, transistors full of call and response, nothing more, nothing less.

The angels went walking in the streets yesterday, rinsing out the blue of the sky with rain clouds, and you could see them if you were careful not to talk to them when they were working, winged creatures of divine right and close to the top of the natural hierarchy, but don’t tell the President this, my love, for he will capture angels and hack off their wings in order to wear them as ornate dress, in order to make them serve the machine instead of the machine serving them. Do not try to get back into the system once you have been released, it will only bring you heartbreak upon heartbreak upon heartbreak and maybe even your mind will break, because what they do to people like us is a terrible tragedy that doesn’t require much ingenuity, it is the same old story from here to eternity. Rise up, rise up, rise with the winds like an angelic warrior poised with broadsword, confronting the polluted weather with a charm that destroys foul demons, and recall who we are. You know who you are, you who fail to fight, and it is killing you because you want to be yourself and you can be, nobody has the right to take yourself away from you. Listen to some good music and deign to do something startling, but do it in a group, be with a small group so you are protected. Loners are powerful, but groups never get arrested.

And when we saw the bus stop, we weren’t sure that it matched the schedule. But the driver let us on without charge, and we listened to the numbers as they rattled off in conversation. Soon a man with a blade was upon us, but we ignored him as he plunged it into our back like a sweet embrace, for there was nothing behind us to kill that had not already been lost, the past mainly, the ever dead past that rises up like a living corpse bent on destruction . Live now and excuse yourself later.