Title, Headline, Eater of Meaning

Title, Headline, Enantiodromia

Now, I take up the mantle of death.
Now, I become the anti-life,
Singing the dulcet song of the rhythm of fear.

Now, I become the very glimmer of life itself,
The resonance, the sum of all sound 
Contained in an ocean's single drop.

And all these together,
Are the forever warring, the churning;
The crying and the gnashing;
The ecstasy and pleasure;
As I become both sides of the pendulum,
As back and forth baptize my spirit
In and out of meaning,
As the soundbite becomes clear:

Title, Headline, Eater of Stars
Title, Headline, Eater of Meaning
Puker of Love and Shitter of Souls—
Swallower of Filth, Incubator of Uncreation—
Destroying each and every reliquary needle,
Consuming the sum of nebulaic sound!

In me, I shall exterminate your soul.
In me, I shall find the fullness of my fire.
For you are my enemy,
And if I must be your destroyer, then I must also be my own.

Eater of Stars, Eater of Meaning
Between all these second chance paracosms,
Where do you ever find the hope to live?
How do you feel the thrum of life itself?

When do your lips make suck,
At the cup of the chalice jewel?
Supping the eighth rhythm's pull — the totality,
Letting it take dominion, when?

I find that casting light on shadows like these
Exposes their depths, leading my mind to
A meaning with which to understand the source of all pain—
That perennial fountain in the core of the earth,
From which shed blood flows and to which it returns,
And in the ripples of that fountain: the whole of life and death and suffering is laid bare—

Its essence fights against the march of life.
Its essence is a hungry maw seeking destroy-kill-burn,
To overwhelm with force, to asphyxiate with tenderness,
To consume the delicious ash that has become of everything.

And I find myself seeing, anew, all the strands of the gordian knot,
Tangled above me like the boughs of the great tree of life,
And all it conveys is surreality—
All it conveys is lightning—
There is no meaning at all and never has been!

And in each branch of the lightning strike’s tree,
Its essence follows the path of least resistance,
By which its shape of beauty is burnt 
Into the sky and the air and the earth,
Only for a moment,
Only for a brief and beautiful, terrible eternity.

But what could be forged, 
Against easy impulse,
Against the base driving pull—

What terror? 
What beauty? 
What absence of either?

Understand the language of the soul
As both sacred and flawed,
As both nothing and all,
As both profane and perfect.

And in this I both understand everything,
And I understand that meaning was destroyed 
At first dawn of the Earth,
For it never existed at all.

And the reconciliation of good and evil,
The headstream of that eighth rhythm,
Does not meet in the middle,
Does not eschew the concepts all together.

It is transcendent and impossible,
It is debased, and so easy to grasp—
It is something that lies beyond and before meaning—
It is the end of perdition.

It is both a task I have accomplished, 
In that first second of epiphany, in my heart of hearts,
And it is a thing I shall toil my whole life and fail to complete—
In that endless stretch, in that march to the end of death.

I covet it, for I already have it.
I need it not, for it does not exist.
If it was possible for meaning to be anything,
Perhaps it would be this:

Title, Headline, Eater of Stars
Title, Headline, Eater of Meaning
Title, Headline, Creator of the Soul
Title, Headline, Enantiodromia

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