from the visions series, canticle I

I dreamt that six hundred
ambient raw black metal
and industrial drone bands
played in an inmense
rock-sculpted cavern.
An enormous dirge, choired,
so vast and dense
it could actually slow down time,
and sideline it to a discreet
second plane.

A place where the terms
early morning or careering
have no sense,
as you'd be nothing there,
just the exhaust of the wrong century.

I have to admit that I never managed
to sleep on the pavement,
to filter down the cracks
and transform myself into a ciggy butt
or a piece of discared spit,
dislodged from mouths like a tongue
that speaks inappropriate things.

You heard of the satan jugend
but you never found out how to apply.
The city was sorrounded by a perfect
circle of flame those days,
and I was as disoriented as a koi fish
in a nebular metal pond.

I always considered that my fate
would be to see my friends fly away,
their growing wings catching wind, heady,
and bestowed the gift of moving stuff around
while I was just this mutilated wood torso,
like a forgotten old idol nobody prays to.
That was not to happen, though,
which was a good thing.

That was before I realized the world
works better for those adept at lying.
You can try to prepare and foresee,
but everything looks strange no matter what.

Each ring and stage of existence
has its own mysteries, and it takes an entire life
to master only one,
and that was how reincarnation was invented.
A necessary breakthrough.
Was it immanent or imminent?
Can't bother to remember that,
because the sprawl is here already,
in its infinite glory
and endless supply of chance
for the laborious traveller that kneels at her stairs,
that mouth into the utterest dark,
like licorice in a blackout.

The competition for the CEO of the impoverished
is getting very cut-throat, nastily so.
I am pulling out.
Those who seek the truth will find out
it's the path who actually seeks you.

And when one spins out of tack,
usually because of self-induced confusion,
it's the industrial drone
and the fruits of its supply chain
that brings one back into formation.
That gives one peace, and so one
can proceed to his daily tasks, diligently
and happy.

Suddenly you're back there, and it snaps
so quick, that you feel out for a bit
and it takes a minute to begin comprenhending
the grand logic of this design,
the universe stool of a benevolent goddie thing.

It's only then that the screaming ceases
and the dirge recovers its eternal echoing breve.