Corpse Feet- Colin Dardis

Dispense and on. That is the philosophy. Yet it remains ambiguous. Questions please, to clear this mess. To repair and prepare the wreck from life and for life. Fragments left to survive. This logic of continuance must be wholly understood. Did it exist as one complete, self-sufficient action? Or perhaps it existed as two wholly independent movements. Is ‘dispense’ the first action, and then, when finished, ‘on’ was to occur? A natural progression? Undoubtedly. One could not, with no doubt present, simply dispense and not move on. Or even to move on without dispensing. No, it would be quite impossible, by far unimaginable, to remain static after dispensing was finished. Imagine, if that was possible, any transitional stage between the two. Then there would exist a moment of inertia. Seconds when ‘on’ did not follow from ‘dispense’. But why dispense and then not on? For one atom-sized fragment of a life to remain unaffected, unmoved by such a purging, purification of the wreck? Sweet water felt on the soul? No, never still. It was a duty, a contractual obligation for the spirit to move on after the first stage of movement had been completed. Or perhaps to dispense was to move on. Yes, most definitely. The two forever undivorcable from each other. Each entirely reliant on the other. It simply must be one whole movement. There would be allowed no time for ponderation, or desire to return. No sad reflection, no regret or mourning, definitely no tears. No tears for the past, perhaps only tears for being released from it. If there was south, then no ‘on’. Not capable of existing. Therefore, on.

Agony had always been a curse. Vile betrayer to inhibit on black days. Evil inhibitor of soul white days. Dark in starkness, blackness felt. Piercing dead skin and penetrating inside as souls pray for light. Let there be light, the soul pleaded. And yet it remained eclipsed. So much to dispense of that was in the way of light. Too much. Overwhelming really. To say the least. The very least that could be said. This lessness that did not lead to numbness. Or freedom.  A solution was needed. For always the pain was felt. In the bones. In the soul. No. It will not be allowed. No withstanding of agony. Definite eradication was required. Total obliteration. Annihilation, utter. Destroy. No anaesthetic at all. To ease the transition, gentle, still. Not for the solution. It had to be felt. A solution to every little pain everywhere in every sense. Not little pain at all. Nothing was little anymore. The agony magnified it all. All gigantic, swelling, never passive to the contortions of the body. The distortions of the soul. The crying out of the mind. Never forgiving. Trying to forget. Impossible in this dried out psyche. Was this but life viewed through a broken lens?

Well. What syndrome was this? Was sin was this? This problematic, no, too easy, systematic existence for us all. The system! The system! Cyst on this world. Horror of all ages. Was it prescribed onto life, enforced, sold? Where was the control, and then, the fault? Could blame even be accredited for this? No, not blame. Not in this sense. Not in any sense. Responsibility is individual. No circumstance, no density of events to lead up to a build-up. To blame. None at all. It just happened.

Happened. Just like that. It was to be accepted. Had to in truth. Any other track would have been a denial. Therefore, enter onto the road of chernozem. Nourishing, enriching. Know that response to responsibility is wonderful to hold and behold. Oh, be to held! The possibilities of this life. Not known until dreams bleed into reality. Give thanks for the relief. Freedom will come. Let it seep onto this world. Triggers a profusion, out to respond. Believe that life is good to live. But. Agony must be destroyed. Nothing is solved through stillness. Never safe to turn off. The void will never be touched until a reaction is received. Fill it with fulfilment. How?

A solution was needed. Was ‘dispense and on’ a solution? Like a passed on phrase carved in a slab of gold? Instructions for the world to submit to the soul. This philosophy for survival. To begin again, essentially. Why rebirth? To regain a starting point. For direction. North. To wash the map clean of blackening experience. To be clear again! Such beauty in it. This is attainable. See the flag-post, the treasure in sight. The shine can be sensed from here.

There does come, on ephemeral occasion, a few near-clear passages of wonderful lucidity. Nothing in the way. For the moment. No black skies. Channels of overwhelming enlightenment. When mountains do move. Agony partially ignored. Not all encompassing. It still exists. Even if contact retreats for the meantime. Not dead. Still breathing. The breath of agony. What could choke this run on the mind? The incapacitating blight of the nuclear radar. An enemy latching onto the throat of struggling peace. Disturbing for the rest. What wipes this window clean? What? Need rest. Weary from the fight. Take flight.

Crawl from the ruck of each hour. The rut of it all. The hard crinkle of each day. Tick tick tick. Wear the grooves. Out. Yet a fizzing. A clicking somewhere is perceived. Always behind the eye. Or the inner ear. Around the sphenoid or the meatus. The pressure of performance. Problems of society. The cranium box collapses. Coronal, lambdoidal and squamosal fold in on each other. Pick this sutural waste away. Mental tissue ceases to swell. No growth of retreat for the moment. Not permitted. Thirst sparks the memory. A solution. Must exist.

What is the essence of this being? To be alive. To die and live again. To fill these corpse feet. An evolution of the mind to ensure survival against the bold betrayal of the senses. The donkey breaks from the cart of duality. Flesh corrupted, not trusted. No confidence. The entities of mind and body. Dispense it all, for a third way. Trust the spirit everywhere. No confusion. Mind.

Life acting as a vice. Life compressed into confusion. What is what? Features, tone, events, all mechanical now. Restrained and entombed in the bubble of a fantastical life. The conflict of truth and fiction. Attacking, naked reality against defending, fanciful façades. The trouble born in shaping fact unbearable. It had to be faced. Shields needing torn of all illusion. The shadows of the roles. Strip bare to bear. Life in full glory. Love and peace. See peace at last.

Dispense and on. Dispense of what? On to where? A practise to live by. Yet now only half-alive. Quarter even. What is the feeling of life? To be complete! Weights gone. Lift. Up. To have internal strength eternal. Glory, glory. Ameliorate incongruity. That is the methodology. Yet clearer answers are called for. But first identify what is corrupt in what, before the solution. Now, the problem. How agony?

Illustration of the scales. Sense a hum somewhere. Detect, and then it is drawn from the light by a thoughtless brush. Vile interruption of a moth in flight. Crashing onto its back, struggling tremendously with its diminutive frame. Observe and ponder. Now still. Is it dead, or just dying in apparent misery? Whole body unmoving. No strength or breath left. Another hand would end the invalid, half-alive, of this world. Move to conclude this beast’s enforced suffering. But wait. Suddenly a waiver. The executor halts mid-swing. The victim is alive. Flipping onto its feet, it gives a flurried shake of the head, considers the sheer impressiveness of its somersault. And then flight.

A shocking retreat. Escape from death, ever near. No fault of its own. This moth flies, for life has not reached the end. Yet. Such passion to survive, with barely a moment to contemplate the ensuing crime. The force of salvation manoeuvres the corpse. Rises from agony and tears off the claw with determination. The reaper creeps, but not for this one. It dispensed with death, and flew on. Continued as with a new injection of refreshing vitality. An everyday wonder. Glory to this warrior. Behold and respect its unrelinquishing want to live. Shame on the edging of death before its time. Allow nature. Precious life, true. So wonderful now.

There was a life about to be taken. Sacrificed for what? Nothing. No mercy present. Just a vicious swing of the scythe. Then fall. Wait. Start another foul swipe. Wait. But no. A formidable force overpowers. The beauty of life conquers the brevity of it. Foolishness was its captor. Impatience its guillotine. Ignorance acts as presiding merchant of waste. The thirst for fulfilment breaks in and floods. In gear and drive on. Too good to destroy, or even try. For nothing is insignificant in life and death. Ever. Not even the moth. Breathe in the enormity of the cosmos. Feel the dust. From atoms giants can be created. From whole life, peace must be achieved. The spirit plane magnificent. Twinkle bright. Always. No south now.

The sin of life? Only a prelude. Death is an undermined beginning. Dig deeper in. The different flame of renewal and conclusion. Is the meat done? Does the fruit taste good? Is it pleasing to hold inside the ever engulfing mouth? Savour each sweet droplet, each embittered drip, of daily juice. Drowning in the sweat of it all, must be downed. Made to finished the meal entire. This is the ultimate. The final. The show after life. Where everything that was not chosen to be dispensed will now decide how it all ends. Accept what is to be received. Yet is the meat even ready to greet the flame? What flesh is this?

The body. Mass of soiled tissue for the masses. Screwed together for what? A history perhaps not worth repeating. Such shapes are never understood entirely anyway. Such is the vacuum existence becomes without effort. The skin, rotten layers, ripped away to reveal the disillusion brough from illusions. Empty, made into a void. Many answers needed to break the bewildering puzzle. What is it to be alive? Life, for the void, becomes an impossible equation to solve. Scribbles in the head, on sheets, across screens, trying to comprehend. Mission to the moon and Mars. No solution there. Gradually, after all the research, find that mathematics is empty. A void in itself. In that there is no relieving of the soul. Pointless questioned answered. The truth ignored, neglected. The law cannot be a way to commence. To go on. Dispense with this incompleted science.  Abandon head first approach. Soul first, as it longs to be, for the soul thirsts.

The body. Dispensed and on. The body of the train stops. Halt. That ever present electronic hum. Where is it coming from? A sigh of action, it is actually motorised. Mechanised. The engine now ceases, pistons pump no more. Follow the metal bars no more. Shudder onwards never again. Now a smooth path through the valley. Kick-start the soul and drive North. No south possible now. None of swaying east or west when being beckoned onwards. This reassertion of the spirit directs the movement on. Once, the carriages started, stopped, started, stopped. Repeat to nausea, this motion sickness. Now the journey is forward always. Free to go on. The only halt is the stopping of pain. Full stop to that. Now full life. Agony emptied. Sigh of release. Being.

Enter 2,3,7,8-tetrachlorodibenzo-p-dioxin. Towns reduced to orange wastelands. Compound of poison, it invades the heart. Dilute with defoliant for deforestation of souls, running to be evacuated. But where to? Once black earth, now black death. None to go in this area. Stripped of all cover. No camouflage for the soul. Concealment will not hide the truth. Roots erased off the earth. Heart vibrates with wraths of choking vines on strangled veins. Each valve has its own pollutant to bear. Was it always so black? Plead for white. To rip into freedom. Break the ruck and score. The beauty of the word. Pollution cannot reign.

Look. In the beginning there was flesh. Bright, young potential energy. Soon to feel the kinetics of it all. Once, the walls of this well knew no moss. Soon worldly waters could not wash. Birth gave way to certain cancers. Diseases of humanity not found inside the womb. Parasitic enzymes. Such magnitude. Seemingly never-ending until innocence dead. Then worse still. Words not enough to scribe this plague of complexity. Type after type of mental illness, no, ill-adjustments. Simply not conditioned during early passages. What can be tested for this life before horrors take the rein? Yet responsibility was never a problem, no bad faith. Made a great existentialist. If existence had fully existed. Life became a bubble for alienation to occur in. Pavements full of them. Drifting with false privacy, rarely bouncing off each other. Streets of loneliness. Silence.

This existence and the damage won. Why? Ever plaguing questioning. Inside was fear, demanding security for one. The dilemma of being one. No second to hear the pain, feel little deaths with. To share a love, any love. No second. That was it. The problem. Every second full of a thousand moments. Every moment unfolding a thousand poems. All blank and unrealised if no second. Only the head and the brick wall. Twisting tortured arteries, full of blood thick and black with frustration. Dying unacquainted. This life and the damage done. Love love love.

Knocking down and falling. Each step itself a failure. This track is wasting away. Direction, Hell. Many beaten. It only grows harder to follow and complete. Where is the road of richness, that precious realisation. Cannot sustain life in this dreaded half-light, with the sin of no second. Not alive at all in it all. What is there then to be seen in this enveloping gloom? Visions of a future grave, one half already gone into it. Touching no second. Shadows cast over this, as only the sun really moves, nothing else. Everything the same, ever. Cold and still, dreams are not fortunate to be exposed to the heat of the light. Too much agony. Gradual reduction of quality as the day passes.

Cursed chronology. A system within a system, to plot the starts and stops of life by. This is not a true order. Ships sail uncharted wells by it. Blown by false winds. Not even into a future, for that itself was stolen. Thieved by inner deceivement. Thought that life could be led by plans. No, it will not follow. The soul refuses to compute these misdirecting calculations. Neither by year nor by day. Complex wheels turn those handles. Twisting cogs to grind all down. A clock of decomposition. This is one to be dispensed of.

Identification of how agony came in. Started with time, so continue. What an ageing process! In which souls can only half-exist but never grow. Cell by cell may mount. Muscles bulge, with nail and hair always asking for attention. Occasionally teeth as well in the act. Stare at the reflection in the glass and evaluate the flesh. What is that steam in the way? Of the face. It is the condensation of life. A breath, therefore alive. Supposedly. In actual life, the staring ghost has paralysis of the soul. Hemiplegia splits any possible duality. Soon the division swells. Diplegia conquers all. That is all. The body steals all the air. The soul is never allowed to breathe. Could not feel freshness from the wind of release.

Now the soul is numb. Let flesh retire, lest silence invades. The bubble of time has this corpse entire. Dreadful sphere of doomed fantasy. One good shot and it falls. Pray. Pray for reduction, not of life, but waste. Truth can walk on the shells of eggs. So take the hammer of realisation to break weak shelters, trying to withstand the call among the cries. Charge the limestone fortress down. Nothing will ever protect there. Go, bid the angels to shoot. Take up the bodies for the march of the dead. Only in the bubbles is there purgatory. Illusion of safety. Then spontaneous combustion. The road chosen will lead to destiny. What will fill these shoes, left spare by the dead?


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