The Slaughterhouse of Dream – S.M.H.

For the Earth is a devil and you will burn with it. 


The sun sweats in the sky, ants carrying heat like black stones, gathering burn in the crackling morning.  The air already beginning to heat, the musk of flowers thick, the humid earth yammering like a pollen clogged throat. Patches of spiny plants and yellow petals of flowers, thistles barbed and wicked bending for blood in the wind. Stalks of thorns bending and tangled like clasping fingers glowing with purple veins tracing through the ghost of their skin.  The earth a dream, thrashing with the sweat of fear, nightmares of the subconscious eye digging into the void of men.  Men waking, moving, waking.  Swallowed by the quilt of wet the humid air beading on their fallow skin. Tonguing the salt of the hearty earth the sweat drips onto the dirt.  Rolling out of their sleeping bags, sand hollowed where their bodies lay, the cocoon of sleep emptied of form.  The sand wasted of color, bleached out white as bone meal the years of sun soaked in the grains of vibrating heat.  The men crack open eyes the men wake each other the men heat coffee or warm oatmeal or jostle each for the latrine. Men wake, the guns by their sides denting their skin, haunting flesh with latent death.  The prayer beads are thick around necks, round and smooth as marbles, gliding the sun off their hardness in the morning.  The prayer beads are chafed and smooth, many  hands wringing forgiveness, the blood tracing the valleys of palms.  Hands carved to hold the butchery of life. Men chew grains like cud, jaws grinding, the monotonous chew.  Rifles are shouldered.  The barrels black.  Rifles are shouldered to grieve the sight of others.  The graves are dug the graves black as barrel, the emptiness of space fibrous in the air. Graves infinite, bullet holes in skulls annihilating heaven. The black holes obliterating time,  the cosmic blood glistening malignant in the endless grave. Shovels violent as the sword, warping the past with the present of dirt.  The burial synchronous.  The burial immanent to the birthing world.

 Rattlesnakes buzz the God of War is buzzing each man leads a boy to witness the mass grave on which they pray.  Rattlesnakes buzz the air is buzz the God of  War fondling the blessing of blood.  Each man leads a boy to witness and to worship and to finger the prayer beads of their borrowing.  The rattlesnakes buzz the air vibrates to bugle the burning of the day.  The rattlesnakes vibrate the sun burning in the ritual of its light.  The boys are shown to see what their duty will do.  The boys are shown to know what their duty will be.  The serpent tongue of death is flicked into their ears, their eyes the swallow of what is dying.  The boys have guns, the guns are pressed into their tiny hands, the gun steel is cool in the morning.  The guns are pressed into their hands their tiny hands take it as an offering, the violence of their thriving bodies will wipe the hives of men from the womb of the living earth.  They are taught that they will free the earth of the schools of other authority. For it is God who lays the plan and the Law and all others are usurpers of that truth. They will cleave the tumors off the earth with the bright hands of God.  The guns will be like the tools of the surgeon, they will wipe the air of the living school, society will die in the excising of the false. Society will die in the excising of the False.  For this is their Law- All the wasted murder this society produces is less violent than the man who eats his own shit or chews the bones of his brother.  Every transgression is a sin against the common good and for that there is punishment. The world does not run on justice but on obedience. This is will be changed in the Great Murder. 

You will sow the seeds of chaos in the hallways of sterility.  You will burn the church of shallow mind, their schools will tremble with the bullets of your Holy Hand.  You will leave in that room an apocalypse of turgid blood, you will carve the holy word WAR on the scroll of the flesh, pulpy and primed with warning. You will leave in arson and heated blood the flame of a new scripture.

The world will be forced to take up new tongues.  The Word will infest those whose Ears Aren’t Clogged and they shall hear it. The birds of the sky will whip in the wind as if tied to the string of a kite, writing the Word into sky for those whose EYES ARE OPEN, and they shall see it. The blind and the deaf will not know the blade screaming down through the sky to rend the head asunder the vulgar blood spilling out black as baby shit in the stink of this swampy land.  The messianic rage suffering the soil for Jesus is coming back with a sword and those who do not believe will have their heads chopped off to roll among the ash left in the wake of the flame. The corpses whole to heaven the flesh mauled the soul rolling in the sleeve of skin will be lifted up into the Kingdom the pale moon lighting up faces of corpses posed with face upturned to God to receive the light of his glory. The tears crystalline and shining on the still faces illuminated in death. Moon shining the dark red of a sickle iron forged in the deep heat of future burns which spreads its burning red light like a mist of blood on the corpse bodies. The Nazarene will enter this shroud of blood to lay hands on the slaughtered lambs braised in the bright blood of God the wicked world mercy shot in the stone of its head. The world is a rage burning like the cracklins of pig skin the density of murder penetrates this world beyond the world the density of murder penetrates the cords that ties illusion to the waking day and all brains swelling with the falseness of its stated truth. The world is a rage and it will burn up in its heat it will take up new tongues to preach the gospel of burial the gospel of soil the gospel of endings the Wrath OF God is infinite and unending and the grave is long as Time and there is no Now for Now is buried in eternity the cosmic maw swallowing Time down its coated throat. Blood gummy in the cosmic mouth the grit of the dead sticking to teeth like wet cement the bone martyred to the universe of living blood the mouth cannibalizing terror eating  God swallowing God cannibalizing terror that seeps through time like the cool water of spring in the dry rock of earth. Terror God of the universe of living blood that pumps through the dry washes in the desert of faith. 

This is told to young boys by men with blood on the surface of their skin. 

The men shovel the dirt onto the grave shovel the dirt the dirt beaten by sun hot as shovel in the glare of sun.  The shovel iron hot the shovel splicing dirt the faces upturned to burial. The eyes covered the mouth filled the dirt filling the mouth the words dead.  The language of burial mute with soil and sand and the nights of rendering death from the fat of the living.  The boys watch the boys take turns helping the shoveling of bodies.  The terror of burial incarnated in the deepening trench. The mouth filled with dirt the mouth dirt the profane world buried. The mouth filled dirt teeth dirt molars dirt.  The boys help dig the grave the boys take death with fresh eyes the boys watch the corpses recede under the wave of their labor.  The trench steaming with the humid bodies and the wetness of soil under the hard surface.  The sand moved to expose what is moist. The trench dark and endless as space.  The trench wet with the sweat of ragged bodies moving to fill the dead with the eternal dark of soil the corpses blind to the eternity of decay.  The changing of form, the eternal fragmentation of eating time. The black blood like a pool of tar forming the bottom of ditch. Hot and iron smelling in the blare of bright sun.

Out of that dank void come the echoes of the dead. Out of that dank void wet and hot as the stomachs of mutilated cattle pooling a lake of blood holding the glare of a blackened sun, the fire drifting on its surface the inverted sun burning up the cavern of blood still in the twilight of the world. The echoes of the dead vibrating in the cavern hollow the stalagmites of bone white and sharp as razors preying on the light of fire shining  like a hay bale crackling in flame out on the infinite dark plains.

 Each hollow straw whooshing as the air is eaten by flame popping like heat lightning in the summoned darkness, hay bale like a votive candle lighting the path of worship to a predatory God. The sun the holes in the head bone smoking white as ivory hot as bullets fresh fired and branding skin with the mark of His rage. The inverted sun black as polished agate in the pooling tar of blood threatening to burn the world in the dark land alien in its blindness. The cosmic blood of God spilling out like fire lighting a path in the unknowable world by which to grind the land back to the origins of its bleeding. The predatory darkness stalking the first body to step onto the hungry land which squalls for blood stalking the first foot walking blind and screaming. The woods of the wild burial the blood farm of terror where God stalks through the unconscious mind and rapes the figures of comfort in the solitude of sleep. The dream the feral suffering that claws its way into the heart and blows the lonely night into the crevice of the brain. The dream that is terror where the blackened sun stands like a stone monolith holding the sacrificial lamb mewing fear on the smooth surface of its skin. 

The obsidian knife plunged into the serrated bowl that held the pulsing heart whose black blade and black blood spurted visions of the sleeping earth molting into other realms where the dead pulse like an artery heating blood in the core of its sun.  On the altar of the dark mother of blood which births nightmares out of her knifed crotch splitting the shroud that winnows the living from the denser dream of death. The blackened sun swallowing light like the knapped curves of an obsidian arrow glinting against its sharpened hardness the sinew wrapped against its cane shaft in the garroted night of sleep. The obsidian sun burning in dream its face spattered in blood like a worker of other slaughter. The hesitation marks of the knife blade on the scarred bone mark like tallies the days until rapture.

The boy’s arms tire as they move the dirt onto the corpses of the dead whose eyes are clods of dirt onyx and opaque in the suffering of infinity.  

Out of this dark void echoes the voices of those dead which blow through the colony of ultimate profanation where the dead scream their need in the boiling of dream. The fire of cosmic blood chaotic in the drift of its burn. The fire loves the chaos the fire skips through a planet dark as a coffin the planet a tomb for the living who will die and the dead will burrow into the dreams of those still breathing. The dirt holding the fear of burial in its hummusd peat. The soil eating time by the turning of spade. The fear of burial is real. The endless cycle of time which evades the rapture of its promise and turns the dirt to shield the eye from the truth that Time destroys all things both innocent and guilty.

 The fire burning in the blackened globes of a predatory God whose eyes catch the dancing flames leaping like the deer of ancient paintings jumping in fear across the blackened caves of hunters infinitely stalking through the collective dream of all men and women and children tossing on the bed of their straw ticking their cotton mass their bones burning with the heat of the hunted blood the animal crying in the night air rending sweat to soiled sheets. Fear burning the bones of sleep the gravity of blood pooling around the shadow of their chaotic forms. The bed of their fear soaked wet with the sweat of a prior death.

The boys shovel dirt their arms heavy they shovel dirt the blisters forming wounds ragged with pale skin.  The hands callusing death. The blisters building the blisters building hot as the blistering dead which will litter the schools and fields and parking lots. Callusing death in the hardening hands which will grip the tools of terror and spread wounds onto the earth’s green face.  Which will feed the maw of a predatory God who reaps infinitely and without remorse.  The wounds weeping.

The wounds weeping the sin of sacrificial terror eyes wide flaring the blood glimmering in blackened sun blessing those murdered children of God swelling the world to regain its wholeness. The animal screaming that vibrates the air bleeds the ears of all sleeping in the burn of night. This ritual violence heightened on the altar of dreaming humanity harmed in sleeping. The void swelling with waves frothing spumes of rich blood echoing the eclipse in the clouds of dark liquid shining like a moon in the pitch of sky where the dead sit at the right hand of the fire. 

Where judgment hangs its hands in eternal deferment in that dirtied palace of fear where nightmares are birthed out of the mother of God and the blood of her split crotch heats the sleep of the unconscious. The molten center of the writhing earth grieving the loss of animal scrying the sight of transformation the visions of the burning earth which spreads out like the dark sea glinting clear under the hasp of black sun boiling in the sky like a forge. Its hellish flame dark with judgement in the room of that sharp sickle which reaps life with the black metal of its blade swiping the living from the dead and the dead from the dream of other lands. That void which raises in flood the blood of its tinted water growing in the black sun burning in the weighted air the fire churning the land suffering the grip of sanity loosening like a thread fraying in the wind. The mouth opening the supplicant on knees with mouth open their eyes closed the air braying softly through the mouth open for the host to be placed on tongue the mouth of worship swallowing the void which churns chaos in the minds of all those waiting to be saved from the hell that breeds upon the earth. 

The hell that breeds inside the mind of God who burns with predator dreams of a massacred earth his black eyes polished agate worn smooth by the eons of water moving swiftly over geological time where the faults in each body becomes the wholeness of another. The popping of the earth raping the spine of softer rock.  The land draped in suffering the soil burning hot as that dreaded sun which crackles black as charred flesh. The blood of suffering heating the sleep of unconscious men who eons before their birth swirled in the placenta of the earth’s ripe happening who hours before their birth were masticated and spit out into the fire of this world that blushes the chewed skin of babies and blotches the cheeks of their winter skin.  The rosacea of blood and time beaten into the guts of all those miracles of caved space that open out of the crotch knifed and throwing up other life that was past chewing by a God blind and indifferent to the suffering of flesh. Who hunted and lost the quarry in the no time of nonexistence who hunted and killed and blessed himself in the blood of unconscious mind animals plants stones alive 1000 years. Masticated and winter skinned in the reality of the first birth thrown into this fire. 

This world where the bright sun of hospital lights burn the tender eyelids thin flesh fragile as a paper doll. The erotic ooze of life drooling out of the mother the bed soaked with the sweat of labor and the barbarism of hot blood. The wolves of nightmare caught in the snare metal with fear their necks noosed and pluming steam off their matted fur. The wolves of disorder breathing heavy, tongues lolling like a sling. The breathing coming bandaged heavy red ochre leaking out the ears the mouth the teeth crimson the tongue covered. The wolves of disorder barking at the noose of their destruction which through the barbarism of Law beats the Wild into null. The babies born where a thousand years of prison has chiseled this truth into their wombs. The amputated wild a void shining hard as stone in the glowing moon churning waves swallowing sun boiling black infinite in swallow. The wolves of disorder who pop their jaws at the threshold of their rage and eat the Law viciously incarnate.

 The black sun burning black on black blood glinting light drifting in the ripples in the void riffling of the bloody sea black in the night which on knees and prayers is worshipped with all the gristle of rage piling in the body of a body. The den of predatory night musky as a fox flushing hunted scent in the glaze of eyes and ears and the blood lust of rage piling in the body which on knees and arms and crooked mouth prays. The needles of obsidian light dancing on the black blood of the voiding sea whose waves shriek like pigs the brutality of cannibalism. The eating of the flesh of other selves the gristle of their rage building in the penitent body which brays with hoarse throat the glory of this God bathing in blood boiling with suffering. The worship of void lapping waves at the shores of oblivion. Onyx sun burns the light from the grunt of the seasons that pass indifferent to love. The seasons which cruelly shed the skin from the bones the seed from the fruit the fruit from the tree the seasons which cruelly pass and bugle the indifference of time which destroys all things once thought solid. The agony of dying ephemeral as baby hair or the fluff of milkweed drifting in the wind. 

  Pale pink the christened child awaits the judgement, for he is a shepherd to those wandering in the days of sin. He is a shepherd to those lambs mewing their brains to boil in the confusion of the day.  He will drive them across the murdering plains and into the heart of God who waits in night abandoned.  He will drive them into the murdering plains where threads of grass will catch the blood dripping from an aspergil the blessed grass blessed with the newer heat.  Tears warmed and cleansed by furnace of body dripping into mouth sputtering like oil in a skillet the lips burning with the salt.  The tears will bless the grass the blessed soil will hold the density of holy fluids the wrath of God will bear down infinitely and Time will tremble and skip beyond counting.  Every calendar null  in the rhythms of this world.  Each supplicant dialed to the intensity of God. The profane will become holy and the holy profane and society will die on the altar of these workings. 

The sun burning in the sky blackened red as a scab alcohol swabbed in fresh cleaning. The sun palpates the skin, blistering the cloth of his faith.  The child bathed in light. Tiny martyr to the stuttering void.  In what chapel of blood will he kneel to give glory to God?  He has come.  He has come to spread the germ of death and cough the stink of oblivion, the acrid smell of gun powder thick. His eyes glaze with the thick milk of visions.  He sees visions of the dead, hears bullets roaring like the ocean in a conch shell, seasons passing unmoved by the extinction of life. Bullets ringing in ears like the droning of monastic throats. The annihilatory wave crashing on the souls of those begging for mercy in the harsh light of terrible fear. The halo glowing neon. The child full with war.