Art

The Eighth Sermon to the Dead – Jonathan Hine

it was enough that they are not born for scarcely they move to conceal their undisturbed torpor lost in the cemetery cathedral the dead know nothing but mainframe sensorium recomposed and burning with celestial electrification bursting like sapphires as the dream parts tear loose from steel slabs crumbling conflagrations pawing with visceral dexterity polymorphously primordial flowering sumptuous centers of consummated demonstrations and jealous combinations tragic together among others with the subtlest shift of thought as with all badly manifested esoteric truth occluded henceforth and far-reaching as compressed NDEs occluding the parts suspended in plume droplets impacted back when cinema credits still mattered ethereal and dimly aware toward lingering institutes as fingers burst time satiated and able to bless yet incomplete where only questions of the body remain thereof to conceal life’s whispering encroachments supported so closely by insubstantial ballistics on the noosphere sensitive about not saving themselves with a balance of inner power and personal agency life whispers its news that it was the simulation that subdivides complicated declamations determining de parentage ordered superfluous by Dante third frame dreaming and I’m thrilled you’re like this dumped on carpets vibrating with distant corporal residue they put themselves through there and the air is bursting with angels of light and cities burn by day and this is the hand of the recently deceased dreamy and insubstantia but the exit was never part of the design and the beacon of warmth got himself killed by the way things go no more than any emotion or reactivity hell has been excavated already so some spirits sing nightmares yet hover on the edge of ordinary scenery and thereof subject to change with the edges lost from sight and you are remarkably easy to control still I share your experience in a consensual world softly gently we encounter each other at the center of nothing stringing together the residue of experience proudly slurred and murmuring through the running drain of history listening one last time