THE BONES WE BURY The howl of tears through the suburban night. The cry of predator, who can be no more. The freedom of the world in the freedom of hunt. There within freedom was the ancestral dream; the collective dream; born to a never-ending plain; born to a forest stretching beyond eternity; born to a timeless desert filled with arid anticipation The call of the pack to the rushing flames of life. The joy in the hunt. The joy in fear. The fear born within the prey. The chase. The misses. The victories. The hunger sated upon the blood red lips. This is all now memories; dreams of a collective ancestry bound in a present where our miseries run free. This is the age of concrete, steel and iron mesh. Borders, barricades and walls that have removed the plains from the earth. The earth we can no long wander across. Our world is now filled with corners; so many corners. Within those corners are countless shapes. Shapes that determine our fates. Shapes that define our places. In this time, in this moment, in this space we fill, we no longer see prey of our hungers. No hope before us. No hope before our masters. All that’s left is to clutch our personal self denials. Proclaim our emptiness as being fulfilling and rewarding, while we chew the chains attached to our collars. In that moment when darkness embraces the silence of night we arise and howl for that which has become no more. And then beneath the distant blurred stars we crawl back into silence enforced by our self-imposed shame and pretend to be something other than ourselves. This, my friend, is the chant of the weeping dog. from2011 video and piece written in 2005/6
Posted on: Fri, 17 Oct 2014 03:19:58 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015