Out of the desert brush springs forth
The Word, who writhes in primordial funk.
Its juice squirts into Our eye,
and as we suffer and squint there
is Creation.
Against the current,
resistance brews.
This Creation, this suffering, oozes down the
chains, and by the time it reaches
Our calloused hands it loses its
substance.
We must drink our suffering
straight from the gourd, we must not
allow it to be watered down along
the chain, the chain that connects
and enslaves us all.
Through suffering, we are Creation.
Through Creation, we are free.
With freedom is immortality.
Bukowski once said that
it’s worth freezing on a park bench
over.
It’s worth the humiliation,
the guilt, and when it’s finished sinking
into the warm deep that is Our collective heart,
we’ll be feasting with the Gods in
Valhalla, we’ll be alive long after
the world forgets
who tried to own Us.
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