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when the wind is sour and gunshots dance in the air like a recreation of swan lake; when bitter turns sweet and life becomes neither (or maybe both), you will know.
you'll feel it deep in your bones, that change. smell the sulfur too deep beneath the ground. you'll understand why spring did not come, why summer was rotten, why winter was all melted ice-cream cones and green fog. when the sky dims red-yellow & orange-blood clouds choke the sky wearily. you'll think this is the end, that the monsters from beneath hell or purgatory or whatever demons or monsters that reside under your skin are―you'll think they're rising.
you'll be wrong, i'm afraid―it wouldn't be the first time, i'm always afraid, after all. you'll think that time is skipping over, that mother nature has lost her patience with our kind. that when all the records scratch because of how thin the air is, that you'll choke.
so when the wind is sour, let me tell you about what it means.
when the trees dry black through summer let me teach to you what has happened.
when the sky is no longer blue and the sun is bright green above our blue-rotten heads, let me―
it's hard to understand, no matter how many scripts it's written in. no matter how many times they may say (i keep doing that when i'm alone there is no they it's―)
―OUR HANDS HAVE BLEAD GOLD AND OUR LUNGS HAVE CRUMBLED TO SULFUR AND COAL. THE DARKNESS AND THE LIGHT HAVE MADE PEACE―
DEVIL and ANGEL are one in the same, wings too many to count, eyes far too much on what could've been a face, or something entirely different. they do not need us.
they have wrung us of entertainment, the ice in their eyes, we are nothing but a morbid interest. wars and thinking that the gods are made from our messes―nothing will last. ashes and dust from the second level of a game that ends on the first frame. we've lasted too long, we're pests now, and soon we'll become vermin, and we are.
―DUST AND MILDEW AND THOUGHTS SPRUNG FROM CIGARETTE HAZE, A POISON WE'VE MADE IN OUR OWN GREED TO KILL OFF EVERYTHING WE HOLD DEAR―
. .. ...
my mother is gone and so is yours, they always have been. the sky is fallen and all that were once men are now monsters with age. cracked and shattered, but it won't stop the sick from spreading.
that hollow-boned ache in your ash-stained heart is fear. it's right to be afraid of what you've created. all those angels and demons and devils and gods will kill and massacre the rest of us.
greed makes monsters from the holy, we say it while steeling fools gold because it shined in the sunlight.
(by the gods that we've warped to high up on podiums of some incomprehensible thing we've copied verbatim―i tried. it's not enough it never will be but i tried. lungs buried in heartbeat and sorrow devil-boys and angel-boys and godly-girls dressed in material we never learned to weave with my shaky hands―)
they killed everything (there is no they) we killed everything. but broken things heal stronger.
so when the sun glows green, when the clouds dye to orange juice and sunset-steel, aluminum stars crash and the sea'll boil, the trees will turn to ash. when the air turns sour and the ice tastes bitter, we will know―
