Detritus Om

               Here comes Detritus Om, quite at home in Finnegans Wake, expanding and floating like a pufferfish while dreaming of The Book of Kells.

He farts out beads of quicksilver, both big as ostrich eggs and small as peas and pinheads; then slowly wheeling around, he catches them back up, sucking them down gullets twisting into a crazy-straw network for both digestion and recycling, the remainder spat up, pooling and rolling in pearly globs across the continual shifting parts of his body, pulling thin in some areas, looping and tying into knots like fishing gut around joints to turn them into lures, in other areas becoming hard as bone and sharp as spears which pierce him quite through, a crucifixion not redeeming but only serving to hold him together.

He shambles along like a net so impressively thick with knots and tangles that at a glance one might think he was once a glorious and dazzling God’s eye.   When he senses your eyes on him, however, he cannot help but foil such speculation by reacting as if he just closed in on an octopus and deliberately provoked it, only so as to emerge from the cloud of its discharged ink with all his cracks stained darker and dirtier for a more emphatic mooning of you.

               “Hail Mary, full of grease, the Lard is with thee.”

* * * * * * *

               Oh Detritus Om, pulled high into the sky by a cord through which you suck in dark matter, compacting and contracting into a wrecking ball, why have you let yourself go, you dirty bastard, dropping and crashing through my artful expressions and careful constructs of thought, and in the trail of wreckage, bobbing to the surface, spread like a diaper rash and morphed into a mimicry of an antique penny arcade machine?

Stray wheels have rolled in, madly spinning, stirring up muck and silt and twisting everything near them out of shape before grinding to a halt; and in a hollowed out belly shadowy within, which is also a slack-jawed mouth pinned opened wide at the jowls like a toad undergoing dissection, one two-bit or slug of a word after another rotates into view, each more downer and drag than the last:   Abhorrent, disgusting, pathetic…  Words that act as lead weights to hidden pulleys which have erected “Sacred” to the most prominent place, only for the chaotic jumble completely to overwhelm it, continually disrupting and cutting it off, making damn sure it never has enough space to come together and spread its wings.

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