Mosof Bartholowmew

Soft Apocalypse

A spark of life. Electrifying. Scintillating in the sense of static integration. Down to the molecular, where lightning grounds itself, and it’s many-fingers of a hyperactive god plant themselves in whatever and whichever could be found, brittle, horrid sensation, an inner-pulsing, and yet, so endlessly smooth as the entirety of the body is magnified and supercharged; where the limited factors of the skin and body, mind and heart, driven by soft-self-electrodes of the biotic self ruminate and cook in the hazy sense of perception and their own existential realizations; and yet, the smaller parts fail to be the whole of the whole; while there is life, this life is not proof of beyond the chemical; the inherent. So the mind is blank, and it runs numb, curled by lightning and terror to its core. And as far as proof of perception goes; at the end of the world, divided by darkened edges that lead to space, and cut stairs into the night skies like the distant dreaming heart; so the wanderlust takes hold, but it wanders, steps into the hauntingly familiar; and at once, the collection of an entire life is held, witnessed, stepped and resolved, where distant gods and relatives can dine with a smooth end; as the world’s memories of those gods and distant relatives can die with the thoughts of another; and the world, as it’s baked into a soft, small faceting hole, a single-screw in a great and incomprehensible body, run only by its division; of what isn’t know, what can’t be known, and old desires have a chance to bleed in, before the great steeping blackness turns the mind to cold and murky tea, and is truly, and finally discarded, not as known throughout the post-void of the birth, but then, in those precious places still, before the world was bright and new, and cold and so wordlessly, breathlessly terrifying that some awaken with not a breath in their lungs, just to eventually step haplessly into a darkened place in the ground. It’s so easy to talk about like this; dripping the words down into the page; they felt like they needed to be here. There is a purpose; and that purpose drives the lashes of hunger, and yet, from winter to wolves; there is ferocity, the same found in knifebite, there is the push, the anger, the draw through turgid places; built upon like the sacraments to a forgotten dream; It’s so easy to talk about this because I can still taste the silvery-airs of forgotten body; I can feel the split and division, a little hole that was made there that day, when I had first died, beyond the human sense, and beyond the drawing of those senses that the humanity I had could afford me; it was an uncertainty driven by the certain finality of the grave, and yet, here I stand, with my mournful heart, feeling my organs pulse, feeling my familiar pains bound to my flesh, and feeling blitzing sensation as lightning arcs, now, even through my spine, up delicate and finely organically grown and woven patterns and textures that force me to breathe, force me to smile, force me to suffer and scream all of these things. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be possible by means that I could know with my tiny little human brain; but I’ve tasted a grand abyss, certain undoing, a ripping at my body. I saw the soft-silver light, and I felt myself being completely and utterly annihilated, felt every strand of my body being pulled apart, and now, I taste wakefulness again, in some way, some horrible form, I feel a distant golden light behind my eyes, if there are no better words to put into action how I feel; like a distant treasure, of soft and unforgotten memories that jingle and collapse into each other, a spray of distant and molten gold, and in their cooling arcs, all of these things, as they scream back towards the ground, still, as errant little drops of my being, form something precious that I could only gather by burning my flesh, and tasting that sweet destruction again.