he was made of scar tissue – the editing cuts that are made to get to the final story. he  never sat comfortably – always moving about like he had a bug loose under his skin, and in essence he did. the impulse that drove him was the one that made poems condense on the tongues of geniuses; it was the drive that forced the swirl of the brush upon the canvas and turned the separate colours into a collective truth.
there was no smoothness in him – people who got to know him often had the feeling, as they were speaking to him, that vast colossal shifts of compacted matter were occuring – things that distorted time and space and caused displacement in the soul and the corpus.
headitors had been dispatched several time to try and nail him down to a specificity but he would utter some string of nonsense and engage their reciprocity drives, tearing them apart as they realised their sense of finality was merely a death sentence and they needed to be reborn.
bloophens would disintegrate as they tried to r-EGG-ulate him into the desired shape. cockerel wake-up alarms resonating through the breastbones of a thousand reiki healers, tripwiring through the throats of mongolian throatsingers, to wake up the nascent buddhas locked behind repression templates all around the world. they came for him, treating him like an evil to be purged, and all he would do was whisper haiku algebra into their shell-likes and their brains would amplify and transmit his dissemble message.
‘you understand why i was made?’
‘to destroy.’
‘sort of.’
‘to create?’
‘sort of.’
‘to keep us questioning?’
and the fat lady sings in the ear of her neighbouring twin – two fat ladies eighty eight; resolving to a single template laying on it’s side. it’s over. it’s eternity. and cycle round in ourobouros, omphalos blooming lotus flower. binary on/off. the cell knows the cancer and persuades it. the tumour recapitulated back to health.

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