This Land, this demon

From the Upcoming One Off Mag


The people of this land. He had read that their beliefs far preceded the young prophet's young religion. For they were the people of the open sky, the open land; for they sought to lie their bodies bare to the outside, which is survival; their lives were nothing preciously given to them, their lives were something that happened to: life. Survival happened to their bodies, and through it all, they sang of their deaths. This long, they had sung that same tired song, and sang it loud enough to lie open the mountans to it, long enough that it was buried in the land, where it was crushed by the mountains and broke down and became the oil that gave its power to a new people, a young hungry pale people who heard that distillation of that song through that oil and obeyed it, and built its cities around it, and made that demon flesh once again.


What demon? This demon: an elder darkness, a hidden cause, the prehistoric invader who found this land, guided by the sun; around this primordial outsider were the bodies we built, this rock we covered, these streets we laid, solid enough to call them ourselves. This djinn is slowly, geologically, prepping us for openness once again. Succubus of the earth, smokestack of the spine, a belching industry beholden to the sun, in whose eruption speaks submission to the paleolithic. A thriving answer to hunger: The opaque void of the Old Ones, alighting within our air, a lost memory, a thriving-to-extinction, a saccherine overabundance. This Becoming-exxon is internal combusion. It lept out of the well, submitted itself to be burned, lent its fury to new machines, enabled new addictions, flung asphault across the earth, transformed the skies into its own image. A lesser demon Druj, slouching from the depths to satiate our survival.

What does supplication say to the skies that has not already been said in the soil?

The desert had lost its grounding function and become a dry mist, thickening itself. It ceased to be land and became a field, infected with fronts, zones, fluid borders, as viscous primordial black blob of light beneath became buffetted by the wind released under the wings of the quadcopter. An invading, permeating storm: Drug. An overkill of the land taken flight. What submitted itself to be burned within those engines, what lent its fury to those machines, what transforms the skies into its own image, what slouches from the depths of the earth, whose name means riches, whose wealth is combustible?
The message is the machine, the delivery is the object. Accumulation is its own reward.


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