Massacre of the Innocents, Peter Paul Rubens

Better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy.
Macbeth – Act 3: Scene 2

I loathe them:
Fled the bloody scene debauchery ensued in this disgrace
I know the madness I live in madness I am not joking and this is no confession;
I fight all the laws of thermodynamics nightly nightly and every night
Is a long night and at the concert (plump Nelsons was conducting) Gubaidulina’s Fairytale then
Shostakovich’s 9th (and I could do without the Dvořák) so I was thinking that
These bags under my eyes aren’t stout they’re weary shattered as you know
I’m a scholar of insomnia a rabbi of it (it isn’t a battle it’s a massacre) so in that voice it told me
We have sinned only trust the God that is the God within
Instead why I, immanentize the eschaton
It’s them, I know it’s them, they’re here the veil is thin at present moment blame coronal mass
Ejections Schumann resonance noösphere the cycle of the
Earth aligned gravitational waves from the center of the galaxy and gravitation, generally (it was
Wheeler who said that there is no ‘out there’ out there) and so without these drugs it kills it executes hell for leather incessantly drawing commutative diagrams and verbal
Analogies to combinatorially posit amalgamate and entanglement into a clause to satisfy both and none enough to make a Buddhist blush and when I saw them at the food stores I stared at them at first before I killed them such contempt of everything I stand for everything that’s good and true innocent bystanders it’s important to me that they’re impeccable, random strangers or else how would I proceed what a farce though I said ‘Wow’ after the second movement because I always do so I tell them:
No, they’re not from outer-space, they’ve always been here it’s only that you now see them and if you thought our trouble’s vast think and think again it dwarfs to what we must endure the worst ourselves daemons spirits aliens call them what you may and all the rest of it, the
Dead and what we said about them the dark painting of the owl in our house when I was young
Don’t get me wrong the others, too are there but mostly it’s just us me you you know haunting reminding that we went too far we’ve gone too far this time we really made a mess of it no burning bush no decalogue respite repent the lights are there Forgive.