Revolution makes normal the unthinkable. Folly reigns; darkness is upon the face of society. Over this confusion the spirit of god moves like marshlight, like a bird all wings.

They are trying the old rulers in the cathedrals of the underpasses. They sit on bollards, on broken dividers, perch on stanchions, shoulders pressed together in the dovecote of the beams. The spirit of god comes to them all at once and separately and whispers in their ears. They speak prophecy, and the dissolution of barriers, of fierce egalitarianism. Language dissolves, continually reforms, tongue of Babel. Nouns lose their gender or change it; words may mean anything but what they do.

From beyond their borders, the stable world watches, in anger and in fear, Lucifer raging against the new creation.

Garbage in the streets, and an all-volunteer army sweeping them clean again. They break into empty buildings and create bedrooms, living rooms, water closets. No plans are on file with the city. They grow like coral, in all directions, waiting for the tide to change.

They are so fragile, so little able to bear our weight. We have had to be reclusive. Once, we were met in the dust of the road or the heat of an evening. Once, they found us beautiful. How mighty our children! How mighty the deeds they encompassed! A golden age, truly; once, we were a friendly hand in the night, and homely, but no longer.

Now, though: now we no longer delight. How they scream! How they bleed! Fickle mirrors give us back in youth and beauty, but mirrors will lie for us. What they see, we cannot know. Rivers of tears and melting flesh. We cloak ourselves in mystery, in ritual–high are the walls we build around our gardens, but even then… In the darkness, the white firm flesh of an apple. Incense, cardamom. Sound of rushing feet, and a voice crying out our Name, our unspeakable Name!

The veil drops, briefly, and those who survive are few and forever scarred.

There was a time when we loved, and were loved, but no more. No more.

Dark things there are at the bottom of the lake, and many.

Down we sink in our bathysphere, our little impermeable bubble of air, down past light and movement into darkness, into murk, into slow times.

Here are crabs the size of kettles, many-legged and clever, with gentle reach of weeds growing thick upon their backs. Here their mouths move silently, always speaking, always singing.

Here are things with several teeth, mud-sided, impatient, grasping. Ancient they are, old as the lake, old as caldera, and they gnaw, they gnaw, with senescent fury they gnaw upon the unbreakable walls of our sphere. We huddle within and watch those rows of teeth, those blind and horrible jaws clash and strain against us. We pass within; we are swallowed; we persevere.

Down we go, always deeper down, past straining muscles, past exotic flora of small intestine, past lakebed, past bedrock, past earth’s stony cradle, down to where deep things live and move in fire. Down we are carried in the belly of this fishy beast, down in Leviathan, in the blind hunger of the immortal, down to where life begins…

This is an image post. Inspiration for this sketch came from this image.

In the darkness of the station concourse we swap plans for revolution — this coup, that terror, this bomb hurled beneath the wheels of the Archduke’s carriage. We will miss on that first throw, we purr, but the Archduke’s foolish bravery is matched only by his foolish compassion; he will hurry to comfort his wounded vassals, and that is when we will strike in earnest. What matter if they take us then? Sic semper tyrannis!

It’s not all such high-mindedness. We have fallen in love with the trappings of empire. The medals, the uniforms, the endless parades. We plan dictatorships like weddings. Flower, organs and ceremony.

We grow dizzy on train smoke.

Our brains fizz with rare storms. Colors and sounds swell and twist, find rare significance. We clasp hands, swear eternal loyalty, death before dishonor. We weep with the strength of our emotion. Rare camaraderie: at station’s end we puff out into the streets, vibrant and in love. We are perfect conspirators. Come the morning we have forgotten faces, names and plans, all save the purity of our devotion.