And isn't it strange?

(Rupert Sheldrake’s Morphogenetic Field idea figures in to this, though I only remembered that after writing)

Consider that by conjuring a scene,

by even imagining it - let alone depicting it -

in a way that can be both recognized by and impactful for others, you are either:

re-imagining something that really has already happened,

or you make it more likely that such a scene will happen again.

Such as this idea itself.

A piece of art, when expressed honestly and then received in a perfect storm of circumstances,

that art can change the future. And it does. It repeatedly and routinely rackets up the ribs of

a steel-girder corset, all glass and demi-indigo tint and and tastefully acute corners,

a very particular future that transmutates in the old iron ways

a parallax of give and tax, take and make, mic and like,

the sterilized days, the petrolgrit haze,

the mythic manners and the wayward days

of perch and search as we became as the hawks, as the wolves,

stalkers of our prayers, prey to all and predators of the same.

We’d kill anything.

We’d scratch its heart out by the light of a sliver moon

if that’s what it

TOOK to stay the fuck

alive.

The blood drips in sloopy strings, viscous and slick,

a thickly-muscled coal of incredible heat on this cold harvest eve.

We all bite. We all tear a tatter, a scrap spattered in the bloodolife,

and shiver as a trickle burns its way down inside

and we feel ALIVE AGAIN.

Eyes.

Eyes in the gates between trees.

They’ve come for what we’ve killed.

If there’s nothing left to take, they’ll kill us instead.

Maybe they will anyway.

We know they do it for sport sometimes.

Because we do.

But we have the fire in our belly.

We have a second life in our veins.

We are two spirits.

Each.

We are legion.

We are alive.

We know what this requires.

For now.

Only for now.

Please.

Only for now.

let us not enslave to this

let us not come to believe

come to kill just to prove

that this is all we can ever be.

We pray that we live long enough,

we prey who have not yet lived long enough.

And isn't it strange

how you'll stand in the supermarket

staring at eggs,

and suddenly notice that the same brand

offers you three prices at 3.29, 4.29, and 4.75.

And isn't it strange when you then realise

that they consciously keep different hens in different houses,

letting some suffer so they can be sold for less but sold for sure

while others roost prime, happy and content,

warm and nourished and well fed

(but none of the worms that they'd naturally eat

because we can only suck eggs straight from the teat).

And isn't it strange if you don't think that's strange?

There's a mystery here. Seek it out.