On The Silver Globe (Zulawski, 1977)

Growing tired of murals smeared with love, he withdrew from the light, and splashed into a happy horde of writhing flesh. Slithering over wet skin, scratched by the grit of the earth’s floor, he closed his eyes tightly, and with mouth agape he fell limp with the burning of his ponderings, becoming a slave to the will of the strange masses carrying him. The great god, his stance so sturdy, sure of himself, and his broken smile. A king for their empty worship.

God, what will you give for your people, but the jealous ramblings of your past? There are those that say you’re nothing, and yet they still follow. We are all victims of a lesser god, a lie for our squalor, a name for our faith, not prayed for with humbled dirty knees, but with a clenched jaw, and a fist wound tight with anger.

What are these embraces, that are faint markings on walls? How warm is love? Are they lies too? Are they the fleeting frustrations of the lost? There are so many wonders scrawled on the brows of dirty faces, that you can not answer, you of flesh and blood.