Author: Guede Mazaka
And what is the point?
What is the point the pointpointpoint point-
face white face skull face beautiful knowing face
They say a face launched a thousand ships. They say it fucked with the known world, never mind the dynasties rising in the east and the pyramids suddenly crunching through the American jungles, and they say it killed and ruined and wrecked just by virtue of its looks. And that's believable, that's great, that's marvelous, yet this is not?
Perhaps that's why. Improbability is for mathematicians and fairytales. Practicality, that's the key.
But this is practicality. They were practicality for their age. Grimm is grim and dark and brutal, go back to the Wild Forest and the wolves howling away the night, to the soul-suckers on the cradle drinking baby's breath and the shimmering gods in the desert, coming when the belly is empty and the soul is full. See:
Blind. Blind pride, blind love, blind justice, they're all words and so the reality, the concrete shapes that storm alongside everyone are forgotten somehow, forgotten right up until the moment they-
fuck through the walls hands on neck you still thinking about breaking my
--neck. You've got your genealogical bottlenecks, you've got your necks stretched out for a dream for a dare for a dick, and you've got teeth over the jugular, sucking and stabbing and ripping just like the vampire, only Dracula really was a man who defended his country against religious invaders, and the Aztecs were the conquistadors of their world, only then they met the real Spanish who perfected the Inquisition and who were the ones who dared the sea serpents and tempests. Here, it's all here in the history books that weren't seen because this version's not the one that matches the drapes and the tiles in this land, and you've got to look through another's eyes.
he's got none, and the sunglasses are gone, and it's sick it's wrong it's what they do and so the tongue creeps near, circles round while spasming and scream-curse-rip-back
Breaking backs, that's how the empires built their wide streets and high castle towers, that's how Rapunzel got the right setting for her hair, that's the priest at the top with the bloody heart still trying to beat free of his grip. Stone on the spine, cracking it through, and sometimes it's gold sparkly emerald silver because bills, there's always bills and are you seeing? Cost and injustice and too many perspectives, so you've got to stick with one before your head spins right off-
they're still fighting almost only it's good and it's vicious and it's telling him he's alive only there's no death taken in return, no bodies of the ones he had to kill to realize that he was still standing
And it was always personal, never something great, never something wonderful and idealistic and overreaching because there was never time to think of such things when the bullets are flying and the pain is dragging through the legs and the arms and death is beginning to taste so welcoming-
lips tongue teeth skin hair, it's all passing through his mouth, and he eating it up because it's not enough, it's never enough and it's too much, too many tastes crowding in with no sight to sort them through
So it comes back to blood and flesh and what's right there, what can be made of nothing, and no, that's not magic. People do it all the time, nickels and dimes clattering down their souls and laughter from black horrific endings and crying when time comes together just once to give that asked-for moment of relief-why do you think the word 'miracle' was invented?
and it's going, it's falling out of his hands and control and he can't stop it, but now he thinks he can let it go and maybe it comes back, maybe not but he can live with it
Live. Life. In the end, it's about living, and everyone does that in their own way. Everyone.