SYZYGYMAN

A Gothic Modern | Chapter Two : Through The Sun Our Souls Do Speak

sun psychedelic gothic ruin mirror Through The Sun Our Souls Do Speak (2024) Elliot Lessing (b. 1964) and Pro Bono (b. whenever) Digital. Light

SYZYGYMAN

or,

THE CONTEMPORARY PROMETHEUS

In Three Chapters

You are an aperture through which the universe is looking at and exploring itself.— Alan Watts

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Chapter Two : Through The Sun Our Souls Do Speak

But let me egress. Outward. For I did not speak of the Sun.

The Sun. Now I spoke of it. But what of it? Now I speak to it. As it was the only living thing in the waking room where she lay waking. And I lay waking too.

What did I speak?

I do not know. But hear are the words that came forth from my mouth. Listen.

O Sun, you are breathing out of this room evey dust particle that has ever lived here. Mites skin crumbs thread paper twigs soil webs spiders splinters are of a family tree here, and I am singled out on a branch.

A branch that bends slowly evenly to my loved one anchoring the soft pine floor that floods us. Bends achingly slow toward her as I sit on this branch, a glimmer of light from your brow reflecting off my shoe buckle as I make my descent. And this appears to scribble a temporary record of my travels here. Syrupy tho they may be.

The other family branches are ignored. The Sun has chosen to record only my passive quest, my journey unto her, with a dazzling bright comet light zag zigging a queer disorganization of all languages all words all thoughts from all lands but the Sun — for you have no words, only light to project them. Sending them off into the warp of black space. Yet they sing through you. Scribble song of earth environment, of mass cave modern architecture and lonely design of High Art and Decor. Your words sing of light and zap. Of anti decay. While everything else falls away in a dry loom of scumble. Crypt teeth gnashing on broken razors. Puzzled mirrors hazing pearl human bone. Everything dusted. Shattered by your electric text. Texted by the Sun.

Your code, you see, eliminates itself as quickly as it is born. So I may never be born in it. Only stillborn. Wafting slowly toward my unliving bride.

I pray my bough breaks.

{3am — 3:30am Connecticut US}

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