The material world is getting heavier and heavier. I chose to live on the winds of the astral. In this end of Kaliyuga, era of darkness, all values are reversed. What is above is no longer like what is below. The dark age sees the triumph of fools and the success of the unscrupulous. The reign of evil has drowned the planet.
From Bottom To Top
It devours one by one the children of men so that they end up in the flames of the dragons below. The visitors of the cellar invaded the ground floor. One after the other, they reach the floors. They will soon be in the attic, from where they will reach the tops of the hutches. Those humans who remain righteous have left the earth plane. They no longer inhabit the world of matter. They have reached the stratosphere. Deprived of their light, matter dies and engulfs the little ones in its voracious concrete.
The righteous live in astral life where everything is possible, open and luminous. Not that the world above is a paradise from which danger is excluded. There are no plump cherubs with pink buttocks, otherwise the bad priests would already be there. They don’t risk it. Avenging archangels are war machines that sow the death of bodies and throw dead souls into the garbage of history. Whether etheric or physical, corrupted flesh is not admitted.
As the earth drowns under the human tide, there is room in astral. Without time, without space, one is never in a tight space. That’s the paradox of the other world. So I moved. The beautiful Terra has become too ugly in the space of a lifetime, I no longer want to fight for her who has not blessed me. I can’t stand the air. The once untouched peaks of the Andes and the Himalayas are the dumping grounds of tourists and human lizards running down their flanks.
From Top To Bottom
Geeks and geckos are everywhere, insensitive and stubborn. I give up helping them. Too late to transplant their missing brain. Why awaken them? To breed them? They will pass like the umpteenth plague of Egypt. While waiting for this happy ending, I said goodbye to them. None of them is visible here. So much the better. Would they come to believe that the fierce pressure of energy would reduce them to mush. I can’t imagine the infamous hubbub. A starving man wouldn’t want it.
Pure reason is prostituted. The reason of the strongest has soiled everything, marking the most beautiful souls with its filthy imprint. Victor Hugo is no longer. Baudelaire is no longer. Ronsard is leaving, Rimbaud is drowning. Works that we thought were lively are in intensive care. Van Gogh is in the emergency room. In the morgue, Cézanne. Rabelais is in the broom. Mozart is in the closet. Piaf betrayed by the kid. The very powerful dreamers of worlds are lost body and soul.
What remains of the Canticle of Canticles, the Letter to Elise, the Little Prince, the King of the Aulnes, the Nibelungen? Siegfried is upstairs making ambrosia. Gilgamesh is downstairs making nectar. Lugh has turned off his eternal light. Merlin no longer wants to leave his tomb. Herakles is wounded by the burden of work. Where are they? Who are they? How far are they from the ground! Where are the heroes of Moses? What happened to the Gigantomachy? Titans? Everything is shrinking. The world is so small.
People cultivate hatred in their secret garden. Eden is a floating palace for suicidal morons. Heroes of solidarity utopias, revolutionaries have their hearts on the left side and their wallets on the right. The jungle disappears. The great forests are no longer virgin. There is no more desert island. The maquis burns every summer. The drought stretches on both sides of the Mediterranean. Mare Nostrum gets drunk on rum. The moon catches a cold. Pierrot has no feather. The weather is frantic. The buy song leads the dance while money leads the trance.
Canonical Virgin
Up there I met the Virgin. Celestial, she appeared to me in her beautiful carriage. It is made of blue crystal, orichalc handles. It’s a previous model, 136php. Pulled by 136 pegazolin horsepower. Each horse has three heads. A dreamy head, a homing head and a knuckle head. The three heads have two wings.
In such a crew, the canonical Virgin made a main entrance. I first believed that the sun had landed on my porch. When my eyes got used to it, its splendor dazzled me again. A few tears past, I recognized it. It’s the Space Mom. A canonical virgin from head to foot. Daughter of the ether and the solar wind. What does she come to make in my astral retreat? Has it lost its way, though strewn with stars?
She greets me with her sweet milky voice. “Good day” she says. I reply: -How can it be evil?
Her astonished eye questions me.
–This is the best day of my life since here you are. What’s the buzz? Are you looking for your way? If I can help…
“I was looking for YOU. I am going to share the diaper with YOU. I am going to celebrate my wedding with YOU.”
It’s my turn to kiss. I jump. -Holy virgin ! It can’t be…
She continues: “I have just celebrated my hundred thousand years. I am old enough.”
–You don’t look so, take my word.
Troubled as I was, I could only say that stupid shit. The virgin sulks. How beautiful!
“I’m sick of it, Xavier. I’m always mistaken for a child.”
-Stop! I said. Stop being a child. I’m here for that.
-Me too.
Taking off her clothes, she smiles at me.
Why?
We are all mortals and it will not get better. Why must we die in filth and abjection? How to bear until the end this world in decline, this planet in reprieve? Do like me, do not hesitate.
I took refuge on the fabulous heights of the astral. You who still dreams, I invite you to live differently. You can join me. The dawn will dawn, we must see it from here. A crazy morning that begins in Erquy, last stop before paradise. At home I receive queens and kings, my guests from below. I give the way and the instructions for use. The stepladder for the procedure. The ark to live in.
Ask me why, I will say: why not? Come, you will know everything. It is up to you.
Canonized
While we fucked, she canonized me. She anointed me with her virginal blood. Before we went back, she said, -You know why I chose you.
No. I don’t know. I didn’t answer, it wasn’t a question.
We had better things to do. A thousand nights have gone by. Our bodies intertwined like silly snakes, we said bullshit! Filthy we’ve been! I feared her little experience — One Hundred Thousand Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marques is beaten! — it was quite the opposite. I was served in my bed as a great bleeder. Leader. The outer class.
After a thousand and one nights, striptease upside down. She puts on her clothes. She says, “It’s over”. Before my eyes, the universe drowned. Only survivor, I shed bitter tears. Why did you choose me? I didn’t understand.
-Why me, love?
She gives me a last kiss, adds a last featherFrench: plume, ie blow job to write a word: “Sorry. I don’t speak with a full mouth.”
God
I knew God
Under the Oak in Bayeux Towns
This oak is mine
On the road to Nanbihen.
I had nothing
That never felt right
God opened my eyes
Suddenly I was much better
Exit
Each has his own faith, Mother Goose concludes.
