the thrill of it all

we climb these shifting sands….dried out in the tide…some pools of water rush to us but do not surround us…we give the sand integrity and solidity….it inclines further to the vertical…our scout party, hangers on and refugees, cling to the ridges of the crumbling moist sand…until….we pull ourselves clear above it into the glow of the gods…who have a very strange message to give us…they want us to perpetrate a fraud upon the world….to take the information of the earlier group who failed and to spread their knowledge which they had hoped to retain for their own conquering power…usually we serve no one but we do not have a choice here among these “gods”…a game is being played as earlier the children had waded in the mudflats and we kept our distance out of a sense of decency…until we felt that sand demons had formed their clay-like presences around them and our protection had been requested…

our tattooed bald heads glint in the lights of this rare altitude…the woman commenting behind me…a pedestrian spirit I cross paths with often…it is as much her world as mine…how can I explain her inscrutable, beatific smile as if arranged by the stress of a squinting eye injury…a configured perception…spirits I entertain and converse with on various levels because I live outside and walk with dogs…

when I saw the other, their making dulling in the travel…twisting their inscription beyond recognition into an effaced rewriting…layered taggings of ownership and release….this is the lie, the fraud, we were to realise, to actualise, to disseminate by our infiltration…

their holy men were victims of terrorism, hung up by their powers as examples of crossing over, of transgression, of stepping out of the inscribed line…the books of themselves written in blood…their psychic imprimatur debasing and devaluing worth and sell-on value…tarnished goods….tumbling from the unleashed crates of their cargo cults…leash mania….the worship of the leash man…the HOLD…vertical and horizontal….

voices seep through the walls of domesticity…the murmur of the tribe…passing along trailing uncut vines from hovel to hole…here we enter the World


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