Bug
"The return to a naked world forgotten along with the scars that marks the tide of repetitive seeding. It invites a metamorphosis from my cocoon back into the gelatinous state of inertia from which I had hardened long ago,
from whence I raped my way inside the reticulated lines of the vesper chanting choirs of vermillion tulips while they danced to the Daphne Shrub's listless screech of my eulogy.
Black noons awaiting; excommunicated from the night and her lone pale nipple from which I ravenously clung to feed my infantile dreams,
without ever opening my eyes to mingle in the witch's obsidian cauldron.
I return now to you, my ostentatious queen, under the mechanical squeals of a valley's capricious echoes...
Evolution? Change? Which of these amoebas divides into the better? Which of these can stand to look upon the universe without dirt in their eyes and clouds in their mind? I am returned; both are exiled.
Both are viral. An ideological plague of mythical proportions; distant visages of shattered mirrors reflecting my amputated dreams into the cryptococcosis flesh of God.
Scratching inch deep into the agoraphobic raptures that breed in the corporeal wells of time through spectral reverberation, solemnly luminescent in their deliquescent solitude, haunting my avaricious bowl of emotion for the fear of suffering an eternal ague.
There can be no light of change for I am the heralding darkness of unyielding truth that shaves your concerned brow barren. I am Change, returned and evolved.
I, Change, facilitate the atomization of my only hope for a nihilistic overture by the most dissonant and despised of the devil's symphony.
I, Change, cease to sail in the same muddied exoskeletal divans of the world where virgin blood quenched the ire of your desert. I am eradicated from solidity.
Only can I discover the trampled fields of marigolds, the only picturesque evidence of the satirical love of the Sun. Their stalks creak with effort. Yet they creak."
-Asper Etty
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