frantic mindless joyous painful
dance of life in precarious balance are we
of the 100 trillion cells inside each human being
only ten per cent are human
trichophyton- filamentous parasitic microbes
lactobacillus vaginal flora
(a woman being being vaginal fauna) hunting
on intestinal nude beaches
crowding out the hostile factions
weighing about three-point-three pounds
inside the human gut
heroic bacteria, villainous bacteria,
biotic and viral heritage
fossils like pteradactyl bones
parasitical viral self-replicating genetic components
that have evolved with us
probiotic berry breakfast
savior of white blood cells that die for the human host
only to be spit out unceremoniously as pus and mucous
flavour that indicates healing that indicates disease
acidolophus life is death of opportunist judas candida
evidence of subcutaneous penetrating viral kiss of death
soothing orange flavoured warmth and icy relief
life-affirming ice cream and flavoured lidocaine
steaming morning mojo tea meets neurological networks to
soothe red raw aching burning
until murderous peeeenis-cilin becomes
death of streptococcus
and fever dreams like a glimpse of childhood
wearing naught but cool clean sheets and rising sunshine
awakening well with a warm wind kissing my bare skin in the morning
and then i think...
every one of these cells supports the balance of my body
and my brain
producer of my mind
home of my soul
(or maybe not, but i like to think of it that way)
and, really, one hundred per cent of these cells are human
words of gratitude from the keyboard of a goddess
gift granted and gratefully received
you infiltrated my subconscious and i found you in a dream
i love fever dreams
(even the scary ones)
you inspire me to feel like using more explanation points than tom wolfe and jack kerouac and james joyce combined on crack and mescaline and way too much wine frantic typing tachycardia lightning fingers pounding against the keyboard like adjective-mad stenographers
excess excess excess
i'm officially inspired to express my love for the phrase 'exclamation point'! as well as for writers that can get away with using them to would-be excess save for expertise of craft- as well as my love for the writing itself and my own response to the words- as well as my love for creative use of grammar- as well as my love in general for breaking the rules and gluing or sewing or otherwise reassembling them to accommodate the ever changing whim of the moment...
even thought i'm sick and sore and sleepy
can you believe, based on these recent entries and replies, that i never do speedy drugs?
i know what you mean about resurrection of dreams. i didn't dream much when i did h. with the exception of when i had a bite from a hobo recluse, and the combination of spider venom and fever from the ensuing infection caused me to dream madly.aside from that, i didn't dream for years. then, after kicking and the PAWS, about a month and a half i began sleeping again, and i found the dreams overwhelming at first- in the same way i found the desire for and acquiring/consumption of sex and food and pot and a whole load of other things i neither had, nor desired for years.
before and since, though, i have a vivid dream world that i enjoy more than anything else. its strange how i grew to love opiates for the dreaming (even more so than the pain killing properties and the euphoria) and eventually the drugs caused both the suppression and fear of dreaming.
i began inventing a language and writing a fantasy novel to create a world for it to inhabit during waking fever dreams when i had the spider bite. i've begun working on it.
i wish i could read russian and enjoy your stories. you post/reply/chat eloquently in english. i'm happy to interact with you in such a way.
On this day tradition allots to taking stock of our lives, my greetings to all of you, Yeasts, Bacteria, Viruses, Aerobics and Anaerobics: A Very Happy New Year to all for whom my ectoderm is as Middle-Earth to me. For creatures your size I offer a free choice of habitat, so settle yourselves in the zone that suits you best, in the pools of my pores or the tropical forests of arm-pit and crotch, in the deserts of my fore-arms, or the cool woods of my scalp. Build colonies: I will supply adequate warmth and moisture, the sebum and lipids you need, on condition you never do me annoy with your presence, but behave as good guests should, not rioting into acne or athlete's-foot or a boil. Does my inner weather affect the surfaces where you live? Do unpredictable changes record my rocketing plunge from fairs when the mind is in tift and relevant thoughts occur to fouls when nothing will happen and no one calls and it rains. I should like to think that I make a not impossible world, but an Eden it cannot be: my games, my purposive acts, may turn to catastrophes there. If you were religious folk, how would your dramas justify unmerited suffering? By what myths would your priests account for the hurricanes that come twice every twenty-four hours, each time I dress or undress, when, clinging to keratin rafts, whole cities are swept away to perish in space, or the Flood that scalds to death when I bathe? Then, sooner or later, will dawn a day of Apocalypse, when my mantle suddenly turns too cold, too rancid, for you, appetising to predators of a fiercer sort, and I am stripped of excuse and nimbus, a Past, subject to Judgement.
— W.H. Auden, A New Year Greeting, May 1969