Join My Cult - Original Falcon Press

No one’s listening are you listening? I’m not listening
no one’s listening in the temple of the temple in the temple
of the Holy to her crying she is crying I am crying in the
temple in the temple of the temple of the temple of the sun.
Hearing voices crying voices wailing voices all in chorus
of the temple and the temple and the temple of the Holy
falling deeper ever deeper even deeper than the Holy
in the temple of the temple in the temple of the sun.
Grass crunched thickly underfoot. The warm haze in the valley was
thick, but as he pressed on over the slippery, barnacle covered rocks the
air grew cold. (His breath was ice but it was also the middle of summer.)
As he traversed further inland, now on solid earth and granite, he realized
that he was phasing out between this landscape and somewhere else.
The ground was solid, now sloping down into a valley…
My view blurs at the edges. The smell of vegetation poking through
the last, melting snow of winter. Damp earth. The ice brings fertility.
There’s a deep pulse that reverberates all around me, a bass thrumming
sound, so deep that you feel it in your chest more than hear it. The
air is humid, yet I can see the cold of my breath in the air, the pale
reflection of yesterday.
I’m still conscious. For the first time now I think over all that has
happened to me, and I know for the first time that I was dead, that there
was never any turning back, that right now I am doing as I must do and
as I have always done, there is no effort, there is no ego, all is as it
should be, as it always has been, as the earth swallowed me, as I made
love, as the water passed above my head, my lungs aching, as I was
frightened and hid from the predators, as I turned to Ken when I did, as
we played the roles we did because he needed someone to confide in and
I needed to be confided in, as the fire burned away my skin and the
remaining ashes were dispersed in the four directions, light and paperthin
like hummingbird feathers… Yet after it all, there is something
remaining. And it is not regret.
Now I walk through the heart of this forest in autumn. I’m thinking:
I’ve got to really push for something…the smell of fresh earth, the feeling,
that fleeting feeling that always comes along with it like the onset of
vertigo when you realize you’re falling in love, and there’s no turning
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