The Last Soul (Song of Ionia)

Shuddering down, stuttering to a below unlike the
proclamation birth I had so once imagined to be.
Thinking, as nightmares tend you —O’ mine belly,
O’ mine writhing Gut, fled out do you
in flurrious shade, to mend to life the feelings that now
choke on the entanglement of the ground,
the straight,
the analogous.

Plead, beg O’ Gut, sputter forth and gurgle loud, so
pray the warping beings hear you. You rage, you race,
for sensory are you, knowing how comes your death by creed.

So comes the O’ dreaded scampering strangleweed, of nothing.

Silence! Break off that old, forsook sounding of noise,
booming of elder drum, slice that winding thrumming strum
of ancient organ. Beat it out, quiet it!
Have you not heard?
A new order is at hand: Order of algorithm.
Order, of order indeed.
The numbers, the slots, the sections, the synapses and white slips of all
have been let loose! Troops upon troops now march
single file, two by ten by hundreds in perfect symmetric monotone line;
anomalies lay hind,
to be squeaked out by a black, thickish marker.

O’ Gut, we can not run. O’ Gut how you have failed me.
Had you but done the so desired destiny,
And been taken
—faded to death you should have done.
How why and why and why do you still sit within,
curdling like the full milk. Waddled in imperfections,
tempest in the horrid feeling. Why and why
does the color stay? To only drown in deep cybernetic.

O’ Gut, do you not yet know? Understand? Your death begets the New World.

Rings, rings of the ears as the silence sweeps.
It squeezes the throat, cuts off O’ Gut our dearest,
greatest, loudest eye! How terror! How pain!
Why had you not fled! when the battalion wailed!
when the ceasefire ceased! when all the jackals
of perfection bred rushed like the inching ivy through deceptive time!
To rip you limb from glowing limb
and swallow you as a morsel of antiquity gone.

O’ Gut, O’ gurgling belly of mine, hold. Hold strong.

It is upon us.

You’ve twisted. How desperate you clutch.
How long you’ve held out, against the aristocratic hellmouth,
the bloody smoothen, the bangled bodies that quiver,
quiver towards like queens, all bright and bogus
greedsome blossoming.

Cling with me, please, if just some longer still.
You are braven, beauty, compassion true;
O’ Gut you are dear friend.
Thanks I give, thanks one last, as we cling,
cling together as the mess of soul that we, possibly, possibly,

Possibly may be.

Thanks, one last more;
our final breath together, caught,
torrent, in the forbidden forbidden feeling,
before this feeling drunk madly to dark.

Breath. We loose breath.

Breath. We loose breath.

…To one, final, breath…

Do you hear that?

I hear nothing.
Just a clicking, soft and dull,
so riled of emptiness when the sound of a bird’s wing creeps in,
all the two-legged flinch.

So, “March.”
Say the dear number,
dear number, the dearest of dear.

So, “March.”
Say the dear section,
dear slot, the dearest of dear.

So dear, so dear…dear dear dear…but wait. What is this?
Some gasp from deep some memory?
Dear doesn’t – O’, can mine be?
Dear, O’ Guts! Dearest gone O’ gone light, can you hear me?
March away, I do march,
yet dearest O’ Gut, we are not yet defeated!
I taste the howling from inside
—In line, all faces looking forward in stiffly march, yet lo!
I am looking back!
Dear curse, profanity of human heart! how far the line does go.
So down and down and circular,
seven gardens with no hopes nor woes.

All but one. I recall the blight of the night, the light.

O’ Gut, see here, we must lay still, quiet;
let us live as a gravely figure.
Let us remain, together, locked of arm and fire vein,
so though we bend by knees and waist we shall rise in secrecy, in
hidden rebellion. Though bend now we may, we shall later spear forth.
Strike we will, when the glossy ordering and apathy is of glass.
O’ Gut, I promise you, you shall live.
For I have something; bleeding abstract that must be give:

If I have learned any of life


sweet baritone, splitting and noise ridden feeling! shall
never gone. Shall never strip you, the Guts of me,
from these startling, crying bones of hellion disorder.

So live on of divine,

of deafening,

of rattling darksome



O’ Gut, have hope.
You and I, we are the last soul.

But never lonely shall you and I be,
for we have but one thing, of such majesty

—dear, dear, the wondrous feeling! so bitten and brazen!
But O’ of such angelically, violently
chaos freedom. In emotion

these eyes forever sing.

They all do not remember, but in formless feeling,

O’ Soul,

this heart therein still beats as two wings.

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