Barbelith Underground > Creation > The Surreal 2 & 1/2 inches.

Opening the sky was falling not with water or well wishing but with the best of bombs and ballistics—a precision production of TNT’s terminally truncating trade. And how would it really be? Not at all awe like on TV but short sustained shock if caught in inferno’s furious fires and extended and insistent agony in beds of blood and body parts gone to pieces or cloths draped covering coffins carried on backs of real grievance’s no camera can capture or second-hand tale can spin. Are they crispy on the outside but soft and gooey in the center? How does God get the caramel inside?

“Decide!” he cried, “Pick your side—with us or against us (“with them” in silent parentheses)!” And it’s never understood that in the choosing in the deciding in the decision to decide what side to take or fake or bake or make—go jump in the lake!—we create the side that defines the side that rhymes the side that tries to climb up our backs and come over here to steal all our jobs or mail us anthrax or blow shit up or create terror and havoc and panic and hysteria and fear and loathing and it’s all so true and real because there it was in my living room on a tiny fifty inch screen—not at all or in any way the day that they had, them there, those tiny people, living inside that black rectangular box, being fed by the lines that run through walls and underground or trail to dishes that cast for fishes riding the delight of wave’s frequencies and amplitudes, crests and waves rising and falling: a trough of discourse spoken by all things everywhere, but these particular fishes being netted by the dishes adorned from where they’re born via satellite stars’ silent orbit above.

And if it rains today and the skies are dark and the wind is howling can that compare to the plunge of munitions’ strikes against structures (both living and inanimate) where the skies are soaked in thick black smoke that chokes with charred flesh, to the say the most of the least toxic—don’t forget flaming plastics and treated manufactured materials: a soup so thick you could eat it with a fork, and the howling we’d here would be the wailing of the wounded or the births of the blasts or living for the dead. But we can turn it all off in a way they never can or simply leave to sit and shit as we wipe our asses with the brand that needs to be squeezed—much like they need to be squeezed over there.