The Fall of Forks and Knifes (July 8, 2015)

First the forks,
Then the knives,
They first rain down sunset skies.

The evening passes with moaning from factory-set cows who are attached to the machines. Set to this machine we see gentle yet intrusive cuts made into the flesh; it’s done to extract the milk. Of course the calf, the veal, is separated from the mother upon birth, making it white fleshed and of the most gentle taste that is to be taken as a complement to the taste of human flesh. Veal, chicken livers, bone marrow, and pork, to be exact. Never mind these animals, though, as all watches the forks and knives fall onto the ground.

Blood spews,
Fountains fill,
The blood drains from the soil,
And forms a muddle of dried blood.
The dryness of drought,
The rain strips us, teases us,
And dries our blood.

Knifes stab the heads of factory workers. Some are salvaged and flee, interrupting the ever-going gears of production and consumption. Flee now, stop now, and get inside, before the forks and knifes crack your head open to the vultures. Before long, however, it will have already been the end of the world, as we have iterated it everyday for the last 70 years.

Teased to the strips,
The attacks come.
They come: The ones with forks and knifes.
They grab, they cut, they eat,
Laughing in joy to the tanks and bombs
Dropped on their enormous fingers.
The giants come.
They are not human but imaginary:
It is the pretend, the inseparable thing from humans,
That plagues them in the night.

One farmer thinks: “I’m spared!” Dead in intellect, he has obeyed the whims of the loaner for ages. He has never considered trying out the voice in him that tells him to give his plants more water when in fact the loaner told him not to. “Otherwise the credibility of your loan will cease,” replies the loaner. “But is this not a beautiful thing, then? To be freed of my loan back to you?” “Oh, but sir, the loan is not financial. The loan is a favor to you.” “How? I was the one who came to you and I was going to work to pay it off.” “Not anymore; you’re of the political good, you do as I say and you will have more than your farm.” On this night, all of his animals died after being deprived of their habitat for so long. Disease killed off those not stabbed with knifes or eaten by the imaginary giants. Woe leads to suicide. Goodbye farmer. The self-sufficiency you had will, ahem, “save” us all from their wrath.

Another flees. He leaves his farm, as do his animals with him. They leave in no ark as pools of blood drench the countryside but on barefeet and insight and optimism for a better tomorrow. They are spared as his eyes look back to find the knifes only raining down on those farms that looked like factories.

The eyes prove dead,
The ears proved renderless,
No smell, no taste, nothing can touch
The madness of the giants.
They sustain us, we merely know them.
Chemicals, clowns, cars, and camisoles,
They descend from the sunset sky,
Into the blackened, gentle glowing sky of about dawn,
And as Dawn shined her fingers onto the new world,
They find the problem gone.

But the problem is them. In their wake they go. We see their existence always; we blow our youth with the stimulus of abundance, plunder the image directly onto their faces, and ask their bodies to inflate to meet this new “abundance.” The underweight go noticed, the money becomes noticed. The surplus is noticed, the use of it is noticed; in our cars we see the “God” that creates us in his image, an image so distorted that our eyes must be plunged if we are to gain new sight. Thankfully in doing so the dreads of sex become pleasure and love becomes physical in addition to the idea it has always been since the time of Plato.

The problem is them, the giants, who descend from the always sunset sky as we reduce to our ends. We break off skyscrapers looking to save resources. It is the end. The clouds strip tease the mind into thinking they each wear a camisole that inflates her boobs to a 36D bra. They give their water to Socrates as he cries to the plants about his failure to find his perfect man and for his failure to raise from his ashes to the heavens and question everyone. He cries as Herodotus accuses him of false histories. Man’s history comes falling down. As Dante finds the point ever increasingly away from him, he calls out to that pleasure he once found good to rescue him again, just one more time as he removes all of regret from his body. Atoms become objects, they become things, things happen to things, and ever does the human eye that fantasized about electricity fade back away to Aristotle’s physical world, where all inquiry has to begin again because of some loaners’ words to a farmer out in the middle of the nowhere.

So much for the greats. We exaggerate and they come spiraling down with the eccentric Sun. Pluto’s faint light captures Earth in its view, and even out there does it know and tell aliens to reap the harvest that was once the profound civilization of mankind. Except there’s nothing. Rien. C’est rien. Vouez, allons, I shall be there. But look down and see the man who lived without a planet, who lived only to the prosperity of the invisible that crushed him today because of their pitiful understanding of their hyper-dependency on these things for a “good” life. It is there we find our mistakes and our path, when we begin to imagine how to live with the Earth and our culture, with the inorganic, the organic, and the imaginary that has become our culture.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.