The Wax Conspiracy

The Days Were Loveable. The Nights Were Loveable.

Two breeds, hunter and hunted, circle each other, contemptuous, leery, but at the same time dancing in unison, born for symbiosis. Tribal drums thump & thump and the procession starts. Things are confused. The consumption of intoxicants doesn't help.

Scavengers drink the blood of those who fall behind, they rise out of the woodwork, bitter + resentful at having been forgotten. They only exist now to bring the others down, to disrupt the proceedings - let's drink to them!

Masks fall off. They collapse. They are exhausted. The yin has found its yang, the yang its yin - they are now one. When they look at you, they don't see you. When they see you, they look right through you.

Scavengers always fail and never live right. And when their work is done they creep back into the friendless, friendless woodwork. They find little comfort there. They dye their hair oranges and pinks. The desperation is palpable.

complementary triangles + supplementary triangles; geometry is of the devil

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Sunday, 7 November 2004

The Wax Conspiracy

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