“The screen is pitch black.
In the moment before Creation we begin to hear a faint, heterophonic melody. It becomes louder and louder, harmonious still, but a violent undercurrent begins. The melody divides in two. They alternate until they transform into a violent polyphonic cacophony.
At the pitch of the battle, a pulsating diminutive DOT OF LIGHT appears in the center of the screen. It grows and shrinks as if pulled by both melodic lines with each alternation. The ball of light is now stable, engulfing almost the whole screen. The music ceases.
Faintly the music resumes. Both polyphonic melodies are now a single, harmonious whole. The ball of light contracts to its original size as the music swells up, the ball expands and finally engulfs the whole screen.
It came to pass that the Fire Ants ran out of structures to build with their bodies once the World was razed by atomic fire. Being of such unparalleled wit and alone, they began to experiment with the limits of their bodies, now that survival was forever guaranteed. After adapting to the cold, which they did by burning their cyanide asses in their bellies, they were left to their own devices. They set out to expand across all the lands and thus mobility became the First Principle of their existence, but they could not yet understand this.
I am a seed in the depths of me.
Death will not be the end of flesh and
With iron bark a body may yet soar,
Anchored to Earth for a thousand years.
Earth itself is shaped and roots woven,
Death be not the end, if you believe it.
Of what is nothing made but a bed of wild
And idle flowers? The fractal petal bent
Around the cusp of the crown of the god-child
Swelling its red bloom from the carcass, spent
The years in its proclamation ebbing
the tide in blackness, spewed roaring and naked
to wash ashore from stars forgotten, dwelling
in the wet sand a fortnight to awaken
as a god-child and king, long dead in great despair
Illuminate this hand, Muse,
To write a song of arms
For Men, exiles of Fate.
For this beginning will occur again…
Oh Muse! Sing.
The Descent begins anew,
Stumbled a thousand times upon
The pavement stones and
Will again a thousand more.
This Son of Man, in his infinite
Courtship with disaster.