Generative Art

   Death & Doughnuts

When we were young, volcanic, in a panic 
to taste – swallowing shrooms, pills, alcohol, lies;
The prize was everything... 

Now, my friends & I have talked
& we have come to understand 
That we will all end
In the same place.

Where the wind whispers 
pronouns through empty windows, 
while gametes orbit in slowing spirals, 
& apples drop off trees in empty orchards.

Where small hands dip 
into sandboxes & return, 
it seems, in an instant –
unsteady, painful, & arthritic.

Where forever twists & bends back upon itself –
becomes almost comprehensible –
a languid topography of memories.

Where our most magnificent loves
vanish into irrelevant valleys,
into a mountain of spaces, 
into lakes of nothing.
"Spacemen see there’s no heaven above us.

If you want, you can say that there’s no Hell below.”

--Big Blue Ball/Karl Wallinger

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