Oh, it’s a subterranean mash up, all right.
It’s a place of mordor and torpor that bleeds up, down also, its a realm without borders unless you count the mountains, of course you have to count the mountains they definitely hem; they try you, test you, trap you, or not you, probably not you, but Someone.
Someone that doesn’t have time, no time to read this, see this, hear this or even think about this, they just feel this. Someone who doesn’t have their own time, yet it passes and they wave it ‘goodbye’ as it disappears from sight.
Someone is fixed to a spot, as if time never happened, which lets face it, it didn’t. Like a bronze Brancusi Someone is unchanging, except for their patina, which doesn’t get shinier and more reflective with the rub but instead gets marked and scratched, deep cracks appear creating a different kind of reflection.
Someone is locked into limited repetition. Like a kaleidoscope; multiplying and merging to the left, right, above and below. Someone is mirrored, reflection repeating again and again but each time just a little different, how different? Not different enough.
The mountains are seen above but what is below? Darkness bounces mirroring light into shadowy reflections.
Barely different, not so you’d notice. No words are uttered; no weekend plans spoken of, no loves revealed. Someone is automatic, but more primeval than that, less sophisticated, softer, fallible, prone to weeping when untended, sap seeping down those things called faces, faces in denial that they are faces, faces that never face the sun, faces that wish they weren’t faces.
There is a cave, shiny walls without marks, no drawings, scratches, fingers or hands. Just a reflection of shadows, unseen and seen; even though Someone doesn’t have time to see, they are seen regardless. Tick tock, one repeat, tick tock, on repeat and then the buzzer.
Clocking in clocking out, on time without time.
Underworld, underground, underwear, a relevant irrelevance; there is no ‘under’ we are all one, ONE LOVE – Babe.
An invisible cloak swishes and swooshes but never uncovers the ‘poof’ of ‘abracadabra’. There is a traceable history of pain as the world ripped itself into form and now creaks into middle age. Aged beyond its years a new ‘under’ is forming; flesh, rock, minerals and supressed intelligent matter. There’s room for new words; from fragile foundations new languages form.
U R HOT
And getting hotter. The legs might collapse putting the surface at risk but there are always more legs. Under the legs is the cave, a burrow, carved out, sculpted, a cavity, a negative space in the stretch marks of time. Negative but not empty; a secret, not to be spoken of not to be copied, right? Keep the recipe quiet, protect the method and make a million. Don’t spread the disease don’t question it.
Someone can’t be seen and the negative space remains negative, yet Someone has to endure it until they are aborted or self-abort, ejecting themselves from the time they don’t have. A negative in a negative space but not a double negative, once gone it’s gone, like that time and the time that never was, that was never had by Someone with no time.