Tuesday, October 13, 2009

The Creepster Manifesto

If we can call this an age of reason, or at least an age of trying to make the most reasonable action to your overwhelmed, highly stimulated, hyper sensitive mind, where have our little lungs gone? Where have you taken this breath from? And will you ever have it back? We’re constantly sharing, and with each breath a little spell. How many times do you pull the little weeds from contaminating your little square of ground that holds your health? Or read the same sentence repeatedly till your eyes cross with the speed and weight of the words? Actively watch the holes in your pants grow till they’ve reached the appropriate size of constant prayer? You know exactly why you do these things. All rigorous and heart heavy things that leads to a clear result. With out each and every little deliberate action your entire sanctum will be lost. Diakoptics. People on other pedestals have coined and apply this phrases to their world of cables, wires, and machinations. It is a precise approach to the solution of large-scale interconnected life forms. The music has pulled you, and you move to the beat. No one told you how to do it, you know it’s time to move. Every note has awoke within you a spark, a fleeting universe of possibilities. Over a prolonged amount of time, you have stood up and danced, not for the people around you, but the person in you. You’ve responded to the agogic structure these carpals have crafted for you. Did you make out the words? Maybe we called your arms. And feel free to use them, they are nothing but aging extensions of your body. Can you sit there and actually tell me what the price is on your head? Ten bucks an hour? Fifteen? Why do you do these things? To afford your little luxuries. But we’re here to reopen your eyes. With all our constant concerns even a drop of dew on a single blade of grass is one of a new luxury, and that, in itself, is far more valuable than anything their money could buy. There was this man, who was blind his entire life, and in his thirty’s was told of a surgery, a new a wondrous thing, of implanting a root from a tooth into the posterior chamber of his eye. The plan was to stimulate the Zonual fibers around his Iris so his Ciliary Muscle could contract appropriately so he could see. He told us that when he woke up, he felt his new sight was a vexation. He could now see the hurt in man’s eyes. The graves and prisons of our incarceration, and he struggled with this world. As we all do, he adapted, and loves sight for what it is now, but even a boon can be a hard thing to swallow. We’re telling you cause we know it’s tough, for love as spontaneity is a gossamer thing that will slip through your finger tips. But tend your moss garden, friend. Find the door all your skeleton keys will open. We’re all in it now: creepsters, in over our heads. There’s whispers in the air, they’ve been heard on the Island of Vauatu, with hints of Arabic, seen in practice of the Victorian days of New Orleans. Agogi: the overwhelming word that makes us take ampoules of love potion. An old Creole spell of sorts to create love. Kopto, in greek, means cut or tear, prefaced with dia, through. Diakopi, the flip side of the chicken bone, the spells to ruin love. So illuminate, you are here now. Where has the life in you gone? When and where did you burry it? Talk to us, for our ears are your ears.
Agogi/Diakopi

No comments: