Lay out your temples;
Black rubber sheets draped the basilisk stairs
Blood-spattered, your brains dissolving with a hiss
The most avowed substances.
I am mad Tom --
I eat worms and watch my temples grow hair
Like worms;
Splinter me with the rusted scalpel
There is still too much of me to bear
But bear in mind
The twist of laden path
With wint'ry kiss upon'it --
You're can only tell where the ice is thin
Once you've trod with cloven hoof - and torn it.
Once torn, it is the tapestries we weave
With delicate shards of ice --
The stories that we heave in laboured gasps
Are the answers that were never painted on the temple walls.
________________
Dusk falls. I heard it come crashing to the ground - sunless face pocked with asphalt imprints.
I am still vibrating.
I have read the preliminary chapters of every book in Peter's secret stash of WROX (heehee, Wrox rocks!) texts and decorated my office (in Peter's absence to FRANCE! [bitch]) with slow gradations of coloured paperclips.
I work in a prismacoloured spiderweb.
I worship my office assistant. She knows *everything*.
I forgot to go to sleep last night, listening to mp3s crashing out the stereo, by the time I realized that I'd heard Gary Numan's "Angel Wars" and VNV Nation's "Darkangel (azrael)" for the fourth time...
It was an hour to rising.
I have a billion ideas streaming past me.
I know enough to dream them, but not enough to build them yet.
And so I am learning...
"When you stop learning is when you die. When stop wanting to learn is when you should die."
I can hold that in my teeth and seethe through it as my hands slip on the rungs of XML hierarchies...
...and I can wave it in the air when I am screaming my litanies.
But for now, as the caffeine drains from the ends of my fingers into nonsensicalities in blue on blue, I must away.
I must begin to pour my foundations, 'ere the light of time runs out on me.