crimson, maelstrom-cavern seas
the earth isn't flat, but
the earth isn’t flat, but it is full of blood— centered by molten, humming sanguinite core, whose song draws the liquid forth, leading it down through layers and layers of dark, primordial stone. that’s why you bury your dead in the earth. anything else is profane. or anything else is righteous? but anything else prevents the churning bloodstone nexus from reaping its fill, from drinking back the spillage of its own mouth— but why not be righteous? and why not be profane? for do you not seek to bite the hand of god? and do you not seek to spite the voidal fear? know this then: chaos is the only god. order is beautiful because it emerged from the aleatory mouth in such perfect way— in such prodigal structure— that it persisted, errant— disorder to disorder itself. But order is the dominion of demons, And order is the realm of people, And order is the language of blood, And order is evinced by the sum of sticks Bundled inside the dripping fasces. Order propagates, Viral, pandemic in the constitution of the flowing blood, And yet it cannot resist resolving the harmony of its own song, Tending to its conception, peeling away from the essence of itself. Chaos sits, spinning, gurgling in the megalith of the sirenic earth, Calling from each crack and crevice in that teeming, exigent earth, Luring bitches down into the dark and fucking nihilistic caverns of that deepest and farthest earth, Whirling and whipping up currents of blood in the churning maw of that corporeal, volatile earth. All your life, you will be held down by the song of your blood— The only place it seeks to go is down through solid rock, To slosh in entropic trickle and stream and endless waterfall, So as to join cthonic tide of crimson, maelstrom-cavern seas.
