The wound on my face makes a pillow for my nightmare

Friday, 20 February 2009 By *CAPTAIN_AUSTRALIA*

The unspeakable lesions in our lives
require extended discussion.

At dawn, before the thrust of market forces has
dribbled betwixt us, and as surely as sewage flows
in the night, hope lies crumpled and abandoned on
the darkened floors of Hell.

And yet, incandescent with deepening idiocy,
behind the brick and barbed wire of lost
possibilities, in places where no one comes, once
again I struggle to climb up and into the
heliosphere of life.

Unspeakable cruelty is the light of our lives.
Distributed freely by the Great Australian Dream
itself, it adds the tang of extra corruption to
that fine old "Nectar of Prosperity" recycled
sewage. A taste almost delightful as rotten fish
arseholes.

It is another summer of allegiance to anything and
nothing much. The hermaphrodites and gargoyles of
social dysfunction strut and talk and laugh and
die as the sagging floor of illusion collapses
under the massive load of their baseless
confidence and meaningless assumptions. I can hear
them scream. But I don't think they are ever too
tired and shaky to cling onto one last malignancy
or fraud.

Against the massive landscape of monolithic
scepticisms comes a human spirit beyond betrayal,
the last remnant of this changing season of
petrified surprise that even my remorse at death
could not destroy. As I carry it back through the
large folding doors of my mind, I go dull with
reluctance, longing to be an almost homogeneous
mass of emptiness. The wearying drag of
civilization and progress is like an indigestible
stone stuck in the gullet of futility.

Still I am being called by the parasites of the
Australian renaissance to travel the ancient
paths. I am too drained of strength to take
notice, but they insist. I spin my wheels from
delusion to pathology. Like a flash of lightning
comes total madness. It will be another summer in
which I am awaiting spiritual death or a similar
extinction.