[100 Challenge] Ocean_45

Like a dream in which one can’t run fast enough, can’t scream loud enough. Who was in love with the dead.

That unreacheable wilderness out there. In here it opens in each of them. They are made of mud, and lotusing; or they are marionettes and my song the string. But they are wild, so wild, and working the night hours through/long to disinhibit further so that they may one day each become that mountain meadow glazed in lupin and beargrass where the long-pronged elk heads bend to browse under the weight of that alpine mist tangled in their spider dew webbed antlers let them come. I wheel through their musky scent and clover-women’d sweep-scapes. Open passage for me you dunes of boys and men you dunes of persons legged and leaping the pheromone gasses, look: the windows fogged with our collective breath we made it i help to make them whole to reach for a primal humanity obscured in this degraded age, i push sound on them i shoot them out over the sea in washes of treble i detonate explosions of bass in their hearts through the night hours from my sacrificial throne i unfurl a wilderness inside their bodies and its seed is music its seed flies forth from these furled hands to plant life in us. Come, song, plant your life deep in us and root every which vein-way unrelenting. We give ourselves over, what people are these what fine specimens they make way for me they part as through them i wheel.