Savage 1 is adenine: Base. Strand. Hole.
Many things don’t follow from mercurial premises. Not that we’d know. Some flesh-similes are no longer related by blood to our ideas. Propositions can slay and spray sanguine, but these barbaric anatomies and bloodthirsty veins coalesce converge convert and congeal next to an atheistic matriarchal self-inquisition ejaculate in a race against benevolent epidemics. The mother god gives back what it took from us a long time ago, pumping lava from the core of the earth spewed up onto its own face – and it feeds like a landscape’s topocidal imprint planting seeds of fire and ash into the pores of hallowed prepidemiologists on an ego/geo barbaranagram visage. Hallucinotrophy repented just as the catastrophated remedy signaled the promise of a paradise wrenched from the hopeful gazes of our heroic white lies.
But only because God despises our flesh.
Conceal convert condemn and transform; I’m lavish in my self-loathing but parsimonious in my respect for the nobility of loss. To twist and conform to adeninal rites seems like a strong step in the other direction. But I have no choices, and I have wasted too many good renderings of poetic injustices committed upon others by the loss of re-vindicated time that has long since fled my filthy greedy clenched fist. Vicious Huns converge condemn coagulate and set, but the twisting towering building blocks of my ravenous underfoot give out only nine timid steps of heliocentrically anodized habits torn by despondency throughout recovered ego-signs. Endo-exo-meso-poly-morphous/cage I yearn ergo sum. Pusillanimity emits the noxious stench of corporal decadence with fantastic clarity. I’m amazed.
I-deny-nine bent in a disease that claims in pathological slaughter felinopterous plunges into death-defying depths that live and die beating wings coiled around this morbid surmise.
Exeunt nonet vice.
Savage 2 is guanine: Base. Hand. Lack.
The mind is sublime. The hedonism of fortitude rankles through the virtues like four jagged lacerations: addend guanininity as the second eldest retrodeclential noun of the quadraformal depravities. Temperance persists to our own demise while patience vilifies with wayward angles set to artificial degrees (180 = none). Yet the mind is sublime, of that we are sure.
Genuine artifice heaps the praise of time upon our sideway glances as our early years of terrifying rites and flailing steam closets embedded through the horror of abandoned rose-scented walls come charging back like a blunder carved to memory in a conscience committed to all but ourselves. Ontic slime (When I awoke I often saw faces, and their indifferent silence sometimes loved me, but conspiratorial gazes lingered between the peepholes where my turpitude stumbled and fell)
Late. Deprived. Like snakes without tongues and eyes and tails and fangs and scales and lies… like a dumb hollow tube of flesh slithering in lifeless circles, coiling in heliotrophic reminiscences without soul or reason through fetid stinking pools of guaniate saliva that lubricates my eyes with the grease of my own self-despeciated attention. Straight to, then up and against, now down and in and out, coiling circles, drowning fright…
Savage 3 is cytosine: Base. Penis. Luck.
In 17 years I found and condemned my own artifice to a fate left crawling down walls of my own rendering. Tall and stealthy, thick and hard, etched into my side like a lateral tumescence breathing bile fed from my own spite, I crawled behind and under to escape within secret silent fantallacy that states thus, without words: time mends all scars that burn our pachydermic conscience with the promise of separateness, diffuseness, form and difference, but my estrangement left me feeble, and even nature abandons those who abandon themselves. But I accept Sir David Attenborough’s consolation prize:
… that which we love is never made of steel, because it must love us back, and just as well. x = tenderness, y = malleability, but we can only plot on the negative side of the philograph.
Savage 4 is thymine: Base. Fists punching from within. Those alabaster knuckles want out.
Calibrate with me on ascension’s first incline. Resort to force. Declare vengeance, you fucking savage, you barbarian, you animal, you vermin, you rodent. Love is in the quantity, not in the antiquity. Why do you stumble? If only you knew how much they’ve wanted to be among you, there, among the breathing faces, you would be ashamed of this war ensemble. You would turn down your pitchforks, and you would embrace like a mother, like a son, like a mother with her son, the lost and neverfound – we can embrace too and we can embrace despite ourselves, because we know what it is to leave one day and never come back except through words ( = meek sonorous vibrations floating off into the spheres of post-decephelation)
Besides, people don’t speak your language anymore. Your words are dead.
Pass them on, these four savages. Make them leave, make them disperse and live and reform, make them accept civilized ways, make them mutate for the better, make them lose their severity, their barbarism, their austere, tundral, steppe-like ways. Make them cease their anthropophagous circuitry. Make them dissuade auto/form from apoplexic orations. Make them inure themselves to alcohol and women and comfort and the life of the good and the decent and the moral and the polite. Make them meet friends for coffee and talk about their dreams and aspirations. Make them discuss politics and read newspapers and pick up fresh bread from bakeries. Make them declare: “Today I’m feeling a little down, but I am one of them and they are one with me.”
Let them gain a mind and a body and a soul. Let them live among you. Accept them, nurture them, feed them, embrace them. Hold out your tongues so that your arsenal of spit may dry before our conversation has begun. Talk about the weather.
Let them all forget where they once came from.
