The Repeating Paradox In Your Ear

It began with the duplicitous dyslexia of waning weather, with her splintering wheels stuck in the dreadful mud, surcingly singing sirens of sod, fighting the drying, patient, exhaling beating of the sun. My body, it whined with tension and took the better side of logic, pleading for my safety as I lacerated violently through the thick and stubborn summer air on a two-wheeled, growling, death machine. Romantic ruins of a world forgotten managed to reach me through oceans of time and whispered with nurturing tones, with a calming cadence…ever so the maternal mistress…and incessantly, come hither…come hither…

 

My broken boots came off and with them the spirit of whatever cowboy wore them before me, for I had taken them from a dead man. Phrøya, ( which I affectionately call my motorcycle ) grunted as she cooled down from the long and strenuous ride as she sat still beside the chiming, calming creek. I walked gently into the stream, feeling the moss and cool, smooth stones caressing the bottom of my feet submerged by waters from distances I’d never known. With my right hand rising to my countenance to block the rays above, I squinted and beheld the crowding of Cumulus, as they covered  languidly the last fighting beams of a beautiful gold emanating sun.

 

Bees. Birds. Cicadas. The lulling brook.

 

I yanked my six-shooter and pulled the trigger simultaneously severing the strokes in an otherwise placid American gothic painting of the outskirts of an industrialized country which gave birth to the first Satanic Republic—men who wanted nothing to do with Christianity, who were tired of being slaves to a fantasy fabricated by the highly imaginative minds of Jewish sheep herders. Our forefathers were fervent men who truly understood freedom and were willing to die for it. Separation of church and state. Pioneers.

 

Not many things tether me to this planet, but my love for this land is one of them. I am a cosmic pulsing cock cuming furiously quasars and cold dark matter, bleeding internally battered blue stars and scarlet streaming stripes.

 

New paradigms, trends, digital shackles, fairly young religiously influenced monogamous fairy tales, patriarchical pussy-pounding pedestals of pentecostal and hypocritical expectations, matriarchal carpet munching madness of opioded masses…

 

And the piece lied heavy and smoking in my hand. An owl called in the distance. Wailing winds winded down. A quiet without question.

 

There in the caring cunt of the countryside, I allowed my heartbeat to sync itself with the ancient song of lost liberty and understood.

 

 

I Am the Old West…

 

I Am the least best…

 

I Am the indecipherable pioneer…

 

I Am the repeating paradox in your ear.

 

∞