The trees understood it first. but they were ancient. their messages passed slowly. antibodies had started to kick in.
it was night at day. a storm in a bottle. the second coming. the apocalypse. the end of the universe as they knew it.
language gave up now. it couldn’t keep up. the cadence of the time was out of joint. the bird of chaos had taken flight. and was burning the forest with its anxious creed. shards of glass flew like insults. there is no driver at the wheel. the devil had rained upon the tower of languages.
Moloch rose, machine-gaze, mettalic-blaze, glutton, whiplash breath, hundred fingered messiah of greed.
Moloch, curse of time, bane of the ages.
The monkeys sat cackling. the hyenas stopped mid-guffaw. Even the branches strained under the weight of the onslaught. they fell under themselves. Djyn Qi searched in the rubble. It was as if the secret was hidden under the breathing earth of the ages. and they searched, but could not find it.
Djyn saw the catastrophe that was man. head bandannaed, bare chest, fury of the civilised, out to civilise, to burn out the language that would reach heaven. out to erase, to unearth, out to attack, out to insult.
he saw the womb crying, tears of blood, and the nectar of the forest. He ran to the tunnel of silence and hid from the probing river of the menace.
The disease had spread into the very sky above them. The sun bled red. Hunger. a drought of desire. the poverty of bones, and ashes. thought had turned into ice. instinct had taught itself to learn. the first breath lay writhing before slipping into rigor mortis.
all he could do was cry at the wake.
They’d come armed. with knowledge.
with the breath of the town – their hearts black with revenge.
They had come.
At that moment he realised that the real wild animal was the human.
The ‘wild’ of animals was simple and honest.
It was never without purpose.
There was no sophistry in the violence.
Killing wasn’t a calculated act.
It was there, because it had to be done. It was as simple as that.
a kind of mutual respect, almost.
But there was no animal as creative in violence as man.
Humans would kill because of boredom,
or to play, or to learn.
Killing brought them certainty – faith of a kind.
Religion. Killing bought them closer to god. they thought.
They had become so distant from their beginning, from the smell of wet earth and the spank of the wind, that the fire that raged within them now
was nothing but the smell of makeup
and the manic necrophilia of truth.