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27 August 2013

Strange Dancers pt. 4

4. Witnesses of the Dialectic Convulsion

Here is a moment:

The sun splits in half above the recovering Mirage, each fissile
Drawing itself to full height and sending spindling fingers sunward
Its sloughed skin finally too thin, the solar corona absent
Its gravity finally defeated by its luminosity
It renders us bare of skin at last with atomic compulsion
Sundering magnitudes of astronomical space
It splits with a vacuous howl which only our eyes witness 
Blue sky bending to violets and reds in its wake, Platonic
But which all present, Mirage and subsumed populace and we four 
Cognize as though it is our marrow boiling
Our diatom-scoured trident fuses in fleshlessness
We are one now 
We are one
And as Aisha lifts herself to steadiness
She sees wind bluster ash-spots on the Mirage
They blend into a reformed perfection
Which seems now faded by its exposure
Less the perfect midnight shade it was formerly.

Listen: there are eyes upon us and
A flash throughout the sky is a
A rejoinder to the flickers of moments before.

And now we four who are one in fleshlessness
One body alone but strange inbound mingling invigorates us 
Within this body still is the shore and the argumentative ocean
In its final moments
A voice overtakes us, we friends of this one body listen:

   Is it true you are critical of us

Mirage qua Reporter beneath heavy glasses 
Like insect eyes and black shadows pulled into a balding crown
Its white prism gleam a shining head like waxed linoleum and liver-spotted
And we are in a space floored with hard carpets like sandpaper
A ceiling instead of a sky, and flaking asbestos tiles 
The fluorescent bar-lights having replaced for a moment the splitsun
A flashbulb recovering as our dilate eyes recover from its optic clap.

And now we four who are bound in fleshlessness
One body alone but strange intercourse invigorates us 
Within this body still are the sands and the ocean’s troughs
These moments are infinite as our end approaches
A voice overtakes us, we friends of this one body reply
In chorus we reply:

   For none born into submission to capital or chrism
   Nor those to a yoke empowered state
   Nor any less those who inherit the
   Insights and crimes of others
   Can we be responsible for them or
   Rewarded on behalf of those
   Secondhand efforts

We are returned to the shores which host our dispute.

The Mirage is upon Aisha as the sun continues its split 
It is as a jewel under a hammer, these suns
Laughter from the Mirage even as it coughs and sputters out
Whatever of Aisha remains within its depths 
As the sun cleaves its halves and shards
It slips and splits apart, spat words and cackles
Ensconced in a bestowed light from sweat and the fire which threatens
On naked bone and exposed anatomy beneath the fissile sun
At thirty three degrees above a gross measure of heat we smolder
Aisha’s breasts swell with milk, splinters of sunlight transformed
Her collarbone catches light as its spectrum shifts towards 
Unity whether indistinct or undifferentiated
The light such that even prisms cannot
Discriminate the content thereof
As such her sweat refracts only umbra.

The remaining strength of the sun’s halves 
Creating darkness as they radiate their last
Aisha’s body lit like brilliant oil, her brilliance
Pours from within her as she in her lambency
Divides the form of the amorphic Mirage, it courses 
Regaining Its mass of shadow even as
Its cohort threatens to be laid bare by 
Radiance which so tests our travelers' carapace 
And the Mirage’s thinning opacity.

In this solitary body
Four pairs of lungs will not help us cry louder
Eight eyes do not bear truth any better
Eight arms and attendant digits no better articulate
This strangeness descending from the perverse firmament 
Of our world our shadows have split and have we mimicked the sun
Its shards and glistening remnants slicing through empty space
Transmuted to milk in a lambent virgin.

The Mirage licks its cavernous buccal ingress
Seeking to reclaim its dissident emigre.

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