roses & edits

Orgasm as a silver rose, floating serene and glinting once as the flash of a xenon bulb is reflected off its petals to strike the retina, fading as an afterimage, turning and drifting away as the pink of torpidity settles in around the organism. Completing the task of encoding, of duplicating, of melding, of intersplicing, of loving, and we've all been there. The time comes when nothing is left but the pain, and you cling to it as to a breast for sustenance, to carry you through the night and hurl you bodily through the days with the g-force arching your spine and throwing your head back as you streak past the landscape of the daylight and the life that it contains. That's where you find the final touch, dig it, the karma convention of the soul and the place you always want to be but are afraid to buy a ticket for. If you try too hard, the door slams, and the Dopamine Express slams you back into the night time with the shrill silver wail of the possessed, almost taunting as you watch the circle of black come to swallow your body. In the final edit, nothing is the same. Mankind is in a terminal overdrive final edit, seething and changing and fucking with his nest, trying to make the pillow more comfortable, but in the end, it's the change itself that keeps us alive, without the change we'd fall asleep like a foot that you've sat on, and come out to pins and needles and the guns and the fright and the dark that would be all that was left of the reflection of the rose that we'd made. Beatles in one ear, twisted sines of experience out the other, two seconds older and closer to the rose? No, closer to the edit, closer to the final intolerance of the current and the same, when you throw yourself willingly into the cauldron and throw the cosmic bones for what you get when you come out. Each time, you throw yourself in, you go in and feel your bones and DNA and flesh warping and say never again, never again, I'm okay the way I am, and I don't want to go through the changes yet another time. But a month, a year later, there you are waiting for the universe to finish fucking around with you and spit you back up whole in a flash of black silver, and you pray to god that the person you dove in with is still enough the same to hope you're still enough the same. Questions are the white cells, the ones that come destroy the cancer of complacency once you find it. If you're lucky, some of these marauders will come fuck with your world just as you think you've gotten all the shit straight and you know where it should go. That's why the edit. That's why the rose. Without them, whither the world?