metamorphosis, the final initiation

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I looked at him. The pitch of death was in the air. He was inside the picture hanging on the wall. “We are the death walkers.” He told me. I just looked at him, he wasn’t even alive. Or maybe that was me, there was a strange smell, like burning hair or skin. I don’t know where to begin, I was crying not even on purpose but coincidentally. I had cut myself and hadn’t noticed, bright blood was on my face and hands. He was inside of a picture and he began to move. Move inside of the sound in my head. I began to hear all his rhythms and know exactly where he was headed. And although at times I heard him only in a whisper, the picture was clear. Radiantly clear. I wasn’t alone. My mind was a fortress of killers, all enlightened. All shining on me to be the next one. To part the dull skins of a lesser death and open my night eyes to something more vivid. Visionary to be more exact. Back and forth from bed to morning as I see it, when it’s not really true, inside these walls I don’t even want anymore, as if they protect me when all they do is make me fear myself. There isn’t a ceiling, there never was. It’s all an illusion to shut us up. Can’t you see how much we need him to come. This is our secret, we run from nothing, we escape nothing, we fear nothing, we get inside the scythe and we twist. We twist the hell out of this bondage and we walk into the unknown as the knower of the tone. The sound inside where we are the destroyer who creates all things.

He said, “We are the death walkers upon this earth.” He further showed me everything back to the original redeemer and I knew he was right, I remembered all that I had left, deep inside of me, covered in his blanket. Death is a sound and we hear it coming. We get inside of it and we move- becoming the tone. Metamorphosis is what it’s called, you’ve been hearing the truth backwards. Let me tell you what he said, that I know- because I did it. If you aren’t making the sound death can’t take you. Death calls out and you respond. Death doesn’t come for you, you go to death. And you just can’t help making this noise. The tone of death. Like the way an animal makes a mating cry. I’m calling you. Come to me. Like the sounds of giving birth, the same but reversed. I doubt you even know what you’re hearing when you look at me, where you’re headed when you hear my voice. It’s a feeling that possesses our cells without our conscious awareness and we begin to resonate at a frequency that creates the tone that brings us to him. He swiftly arrives with his mouth open. We do want the same thing don’t we. You see, we become the sound and then we walk looking for others we know. We kill to create, it’s not a mystery, it’s human mastery. Death walkers. And for those of us who do not die, and I mean do not leave the flesh of the body-I mean we still feel his breath on our neck- and yet we went with him, deep down low and returned amongst the so called living, we are the ones who have been radically consumed by the tone of death. We are the ones going at a crosscurrent all at once. It’s called metamorphosis, the final initiation. Death is streaming in, life is pulling out and we walk inside the sound of this fatal love beyond how we could ever imagine love to be without surrendering to the eminence of him. I say we walk because we cover every drop, every inch and speck of everything we’ve come to know as life. We move over the top, under the bottom- back and forth, over and over again like a vulture searching and we come back alive and well known to the source. The source who put us in this bed and pulled the plug from the wall and left us in a seductive yet terrifying darkness known as childhood and we grew and thought we were dying and the whole thing got blown out of proportion. Death must be conscious otherwise it’s just a pause. Death is constantly feeding it’s soul to life and life offers death back in every glance, in every breath filled word. We who know open our mouths and suck. Death is my ground, my lungs have been emptied of me. Death is my lover which is beyond this world’s simulated, fear motivated love. The most perfect and beautiful threat we could ever embody is matching his face with our own. What we thought was love – a searching for some familiar reflection- embedded in the promise of time- that sad desire gray aspiring humans give their lives to is merely a flesh body getting ready for his entry. Into the Virgin. Quiet and clean. Becoming the braid of black and white thread, red up the middle. Then becoming ourselves, the serpentine void. It is unforgotten this place in our head. “Remember your dream Red Throat.” You’ll find me there waiting when you awake and come back with the body you slaughtered in your sleep. That’s what I mean. It’s not his fault, nobody raped you. You wanted it, you begged for death from the moment you began singing to him. Making the tone of her into his ear. The sound of you and where you resonate, what you desire- betrays you. If you wish for him he knows. Death wish is real. I am solid. Dreaming my throat is red. I walk through the curtain into the night filled with sharp angles of stars. I wake up inside the moon knowing he did this. Because I wanted him to. Don’t pretend you don’t know. Nobody is a virgin anymore, those days are over.

Hanging solo upon the empirical nothing, myself included. This is where I stand radiating the red, resonating the sound. I could not wait to meet the one who knew me better and beyond how I knew me, covered in lies and old skin. This thing I make in the mirror. It disappears. And it’s gone forever and the mind has done this, left me hanging. Left me hanging on a sound I can’t see. Waiting and knowing he’s all there is to know. I can’t exist without him, make any noise at all. Cover me in sound, make your noise all over me. That’s what I said and I meant it. This is sorcery. Shamanism. How we know when lightening strikes and where. It’s always night. This body isn’t mine. It’s a current calling the one who vibrates me out of his mouth. From beginning to end I only want what is mine. The entire sky he owns as shadows that can’t help but fall. Cast their images upon us as bodies made of water and we believe in his movement down deep in our groin and so we start looking. Looping. Flirting with ourselves, bring me to the mortal’s blade. Death walks in me and I move, a crystal upon a corpse made of words. I keep no promise. I only move my mouth along this axis of the knower and the known. To know the mystery of sexuality and it’s immortal power. I creep along the spell of hell, describing whispers, parting legs. I weave the letters in her head in and out of you, your mouth. It’s you. You know him don’t you. We must become the black that shrouds us. Because she is his hidden mistress and her red tongue is down your throat pulling on the noise, making you make the sound whether you want to or not. She is the erotic twist of fate, you can’t escape. I write as if you have a choice and it’s a little cruel. You have nothing but a red tunnel and a red flame. Sound burning white, life is in her, blackened by you. Do you hear me? The closer you get, the more I adore you. Death walkers. He was inside of a picture hanging on the wall and I knew him. We were the same because we’re a bit like phantoms. Haunting and yet more real than the rest. Inside the way this moves is us, churning fevers and cold forgotten places. Lifting ancient stones as big as mountains. Making things come to us. We don’t move. We don’t really walk. We call it walking because it all moves through us and we loop in and out of this transient earth force as the only ones moving at all. Because you see, we circulate all movement back to the source. Nothing and nobody does anything but vibrate more chaos, imagining momentum when death walking is always everywhere as sound perfected movement which is a tone. Infinity is what I’m describing and the mechanisms of the orbit. The force of tone that outlasts time. These bodies are instruments for sorcery, any other idea is a waste of human space.

Thank you for your blood and tears.
Sharada Devi

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