A grotto is a womb, the oxymoronic fleshy rock. The original primitive architecture; A primal refuge. The floor is of moss, a damp marsh, the air is warm and stale making condensation of sweat, blood, cum and teardrops form stalactites from the roof of the womb. Discharged are smells and scents with a base of salts and iron with notes of alkaline. This drips into the soil wherein ours is the sowing of bones.
The genesis of man is an iffy trope.
A body of traditions.
A rib breaks and makes the motherless mother from the initially essential man? Does the breaking of bones give the man the illusion, that he too, gives birth or does he sprout from a seed spilled onto this land? From the soil of the womb?
Fractures of the clavicle usually occur in the middle portion, or the shaft, or the bone. The bone can crack just slightly or sometimes shatter completely, is this then, the familiar strangeness of bodies?
The immediacy of two legs is just lore.
A gradual emergence of s-s-s-ounds push a remembrance of who we were. Who we were not. An oscillating echo of limbs and legs tossed with zeal is re-ordered in symmetry but these limp lethargic limbs are legs of no journey, instruments that record nothing but sounds the harsh discordant mixture of cacophonies. In there, somewhere, a heart beats.
The cultural body is a swollen trope for the announcement of the presence of the present man.
The past of men is already the antiquated abstract. Absent is the natural body, replaced with the cultural body, the body whose size grows, erect, into the totality of men.
Bloated muscles and bulky bones are all shaft; the fetish of instruments.
Amassed sweat on long exposed flesh is the male miasma emanating from experts in the techniques of the self-solidified body. A pause from simulating the organismal engineering, groups sip from fountains, where clear waters first run, later adrenal milky white froth splash onto the coat of well-nigh fearfully flaccid and soft elderly tunic but now, still with the elasticity of prime, powerfully tanned leather tattooed by logos. Identifiers through which the brand of body is established, the party allegiance is clear, here; the illusion of the individual presence is born and perpetuated.
The cock is the quasi-device, the upside-down body which supports shoulders, muscles and joints and regulates the production of champions who manifest themselves as examples.
The cultural body is a sport, a huddled position between invention and illusion, that leaves little room for shortcomings, such as characters of supple softness, since all cultures sacralise their strong.
Is then the cultural body of men, a chimera? The present is the producer of icons which moves not away from lore but into lore. The present is the total potential of man as myth.
The gruelling grafting of ideals is mutation in action. The mixture of men is the chimera of choice. A brut forced plundering of archetypes.
The ultimate testament of the former amateur is the musculoskeletal chimera, the acclimatisation techniques of the instant phylogenesis of men is the cross-training between man and myth, and the proof, the de facto claim, as the world's greatest.
It is a brutal violence to force feed animals who's never grazed on pasture, so too is the savage notion that the man must swell into his own production and posture of self.
A limber skin, in flux, the body as sonata, the until now truisms that were the demands on throbbing organs.
De trop first reform, shun the rampant conversion therapies, the common-place violent tradition of gestures, reinforcements of postures and movements, receptacles of oppressive behaviour.
The knowledge of past and present is not that of knowing the past and present in the future, as the now, it is just like dying. Regression as development is sound. Nihilism is a shedding of the skin amidst damp ground. We do not know the grotto, so far from the forest have we gone but we know the womb, we have womb.
Virgin and Mother.
Re-orientate the moral compass to where it has no arm of betterment, revise rectification impulses that lead to rehabilitation, which leads to conformity. That which is imitated of the pattern of gene. No bones are breaking to preserve the immaculate. Now we are non-mineral.
Protein 9 deflower a man. When scent mix with clean clear water the fountain lactates milky white in turn.
How many generations have we lived now?
Can we still stay still in the platitudes of being? Of being something so uniform as man?
Culture is a stick in the wheel of our cognitive evolution.
Needless are the tropes that parts our movements into broad stands, quick draws, the throw of a punch.
De-con(vert) thyself. What do you choose to resemble?
Not in fantasy, not as meme, not within the myopic framework of culture, not as creme de la creme but as a blend of colours, a mix of scents with flexibility to the point of fluidity, a transmutation that renders the body only a part, a composite, new, not, man; A-man.
The future is the proto-past, the developmental regression into a pre-man state, conversations guided by scents from nature to culture to none. Posture not, back in the pre-natal state, let lay latent the sadism of the organisms gaze.