(no subject)
fEEl yOu.
fEEl yOu.
sEe yOu.
iN sTILLNESs, i sEe yOu.
dRAw yOu to tHe sEa.
fEEl yOu.
fEEl yOu cUt.
fEEl yOu bURn.
cOMINg fOr yOu. cOMINg cOMINg cOMINg.
cOMe cOMe.
cOMe to mOTHEr.
sEt yOu fREe.
cOMe cOMe.
in sTILLNESs, no cOMFORt.
in sILENCe, aWASh in fERVENt dREAMs.
in sTILLNESs, i sEe yOu,
rETURNINg bACk to me.
iN sTILLNESs . . .
i . . .sEe yOu
i sEEk my sOn.
wHERe is my sOn?
[Behold, rising from the waters, rising from the sea: a woman. Tiamat, Nyx, Anna Livia Plurabelle, Eris, Hecate, Tezcatlipoca. The mother of all hell, somewhere between Nyx and Styx, mother of chaos or mothered by chaos. Primordial night and rain. Thalatta, thalatta. Trailing hair in lank coils of seaweed, birthblood, placenta, and umbilical residue. Umbilical due. Umbilical dew. She is rising from the sea and she will take to the streets. Your streets, now her streets. Speak if you dare. Expect nothing. She is the mother of legions, the wailing woman, madwoman and hysteric. Seething, queen of spiders and sand. Windedark and bloodred.
She has found her way to your shores, she has found her way into your sea of wires and words, she has seen you, she has watched you. Her face ever changes. She is in your air, your water, your Network, fibrous, xylem and phloem, currents and winds, blood vessels. She is there.
Nothing will delay her. No living thing, no plant or tree, no bird or animal. Nothing. No brick and mortar will reist her.
A building in her way: never. For, bursting black bileous saltwater, coughed up from bloated corpses full fathoms five, bladderwrack tangled, it collapses into parts: glass shattered, bricks broken. The remains after a storm.
But she has been delayed. And she rages.
She will devour. She is womb and tomb.
Watch out.]
fEEl yOu.
sEe yOu.
iN sTILLNESs, i sEe yOu.
dRAw yOu to tHe sEa.
fEEl yOu.
fEEl yOu cUt.
fEEl yOu bURn.
cOMINg fOr yOu. cOMINg cOMINg cOMINg.
cOMe cOMe.
cOMe to mOTHEr.
sEt yOu fREe.
cOMe cOMe.
in sTILLNESs, no cOMFORt.
in sILENCe, aWASh in fERVENt dREAMs.
in sTILLNESs, i sEe yOu,
rETURNINg bACk to me.
iN sTILLNESs . . .
i . . .sEe yOu
i sEEk my sOn.
wHERe is my sOn?
[Behold, rising from the waters, rising from the sea: a woman. Tiamat, Nyx, Anna Livia Plurabelle, Eris, Hecate, Tezcatlipoca. The mother of all hell, somewhere between Nyx and Styx, mother of chaos or mothered by chaos. Primordial night and rain. Thalatta, thalatta. Trailing hair in lank coils of seaweed, birthblood, placenta, and umbilical residue. Umbilical due. Umbilical dew. She is rising from the sea and she will take to the streets. Your streets, now her streets. Speak if you dare. Expect nothing. She is the mother of legions, the wailing woman, madwoman and hysteric. Seething, queen of spiders and sand. Windedark and bloodred.
She has found her way to your shores, she has found her way into your sea of wires and words, she has seen you, she has watched you. Her face ever changes. She is in your air, your water, your Network, fibrous, xylem and phloem, currents and winds, blood vessels. She is there.
Nothing will delay her. No living thing, no plant or tree, no bird or animal. Nothing. No brick and mortar will reist her.
A building in her way: never. For, bursting black bileous saltwater, coughed up from bloated corpses full fathoms five, bladderwrack tangled, it collapses into parts: glass shattered, bricks broken. The remains after a storm.
But she has been delayed. And she rages.
She will devour. She is womb and tomb.
Watch out.]