I have the array. The array of perpetual sleeplessness. Spawning the array of discomfort. Funny when the word hits, I think of lights. Light laid down on barren land giving life to flowers plants trees and rainforest. Sort of like in an inverted world where lights is ground and content is unnecessary. I am bliss living in the womb of intangible necessity. If hands could function. Imagine the dysfunctional syndromes of the functional.
This is when taste seizes. And seizure manifest itself as prime forms of survival. Where mental disabilities would reign and intellectual non profit organizations would hold international leaders with heads in their belly drooling liquid serpent spit. Coming back with blistering arguments of coherence. Muttering their superiority with a mental foulness that will overthrow the systemization of status. Of product. Their hands and organs hang like limbs from a tree. They kiss and reproduce in reversals. Bearing, rather debearing children, that unearth into vanishing forms of incognito. Incognito when there is nothing physical left to sample. Then we stand here. Void and empty. And only then. Only them to discover the true equilibrium of soul. The perfect balance. Where numbers are equal to alphabets.
The infinite shrinks to a size of a teardrop – rolling down the cheek of a goddess. Where fire burns, oceans surge. And still, only Papaya King holds stools, that hold the walking dead of Manhattan. Chewing of the buns, the sesame smells of that unique hotdog. The relish. The mustard. Papaya juice never tasted so mechanical. But the meat was what it was about. It is for everybody. The meat. Its texture, its flow of peanut oil thru its cavities. The juices that excrete with an array. An array of spices and herbs – tickling its way on the tongue. Moving in the direction of the throat. Paying homage to the vast temple of this body. In which we know nothing about.
And eventually, everything will fall back into place. The traffic cluster fuckly ravages by. The concretes landscapes take the shapes of geometric persistency and aligns itself to the stars, where the temple is the son. The feet touches the ground. Lunch is over.
And I return to the mechanicals a humble servant. A servant displaying an array of calculated complacence.
