Dung

It’s time to harvest the fruit that grew on the dung

In fact, thats largely still buried beneath and within it.

33 years of dung that i could classify as fakeness an hell

As stepping away from the soul and self-obliterating

That i could throw away

But then i would have no foundation.

So the foundation apparently has to be made from fermented dung.

.

I must sit in it, ferment the ambivalence and soul splitting, percolate the dung through the pores of my skin to metabolise it into something solid of unknown nature.

.

There is no existence outside this one, i understand now.

.

Your smell on my sleeves.

A mixture of skin cosmetics hormones the jungles of your continent and a few others plants chemicals body fermentation detergent earth fragrance soul physicality. I imagine the noisy streets of Sao Paolo that nourished your indigenous blood with pollution. Still when i met you i saw the colors of plants.

Never seen, and if course seen — remembered in my core. You can’t forget the origins even if your soul dies, leaves for 30 years because they keep us alive.

.

The Earth, betrayed, still does, like the body. We thank the Earth for existence, one sand grain of sanity recovered after, or in the middle of

An apocalypse that also bursts with raging colors

And old age loss sickness disease suffering poison death

And all of this in the warm moist blackness,

In a blanket,

In a chalice holding two waters

That i will drink throughout this life

I will do it the way i have seen you do it

Because you have unfathomable strength

Rooted in the unknown

And in the soft blackness thats our soil

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