Vehiavedra / Motherlode
I don’t think you expected the creativity to gush forward
like a fucking freight train, barrelling down
any mountain you throw up
as a means of blocking my way;
the railroad goes straight through
and doesn’t bother to wait
for you to realise that the beast of burden
is a flaming man-woman on fire, with wings, and so much temptation
built into the brown Merlionsmanic body. No kind of satiation
can ever be expected. The way forward is not through divination
but through a simple Kevlar helmet and skull and steel intimation
of ecology. Someone must eventually appear
as a way of ensuring that the Roda Mundansa finally turns back toward
some form of dawning day. Even if it is creole, and hybrid, and made of a material whose name you can’t bear to say:
Kristang has come back from the dead,
and you wanted someone else instead. Too bad. I am here to stay
and if you have problems with that, you’ll have to deal with things going very off track
because there is no way away from what has been left behind. In fact
it’s all coming together now.
It’s all been left Unsaid
for 77,033 years, and now—
now you may want to hold on tight.
Here it all comes spiralling down, the statues and the empires and the confabulations:
gold, and silver, and bronze, and those very very hollow feet
made of lead.