The parable of two 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 goes like this.

POST: 0030
POETRY
06-23-02022

The parable of two 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 goes like this.

Inside of me there are two 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘.

They 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 often.

In time, inside of me there are more 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘, exponential rumble-tumble 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓬𝓾𝓫𝓼. Population growth as my life lives me.



A 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖋 𝓻𝓱𝓲𝔃𝓸𝓶𝓮 expands its threshold over me.

And, inside me, some 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 . . .

( 𝓳𝓸𝔂 / 𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓮 / 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 / 𝓱𝓾𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂 / 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 / 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓱𝔂 / 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓲𝓽𝔂 / 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓱 𝔀𝓸𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓼 )

. . . seem better than others . . .

( 𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖗 / 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 / 𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜 / 𝖗𝖊𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖙 / 𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖉 / 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙 / 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 / 𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋-𝖉𝖔𝖚𝖇𝖙 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 )

Just as, inside me, some parts. . .

( 𝓳𝓸𝔂 / 𝓹𝓮𝓪𝓬𝓮 / 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 / 𝓱𝓾𝓶𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓽𝔂 / 𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 / 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓪𝓽𝓱𝔂 / 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓲𝓽𝔂 / 𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓽𝓱 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓼 )

. . . seem better than others . . .

( 𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖗 / 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 / 𝖘𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖜 / 𝖗𝖊𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖙 / 𝖌𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖉 / 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙 / 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 / 𝖘𝖊𝖑𝖋-𝖉𝖔𝖚𝖇𝖙 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘)



The parable instructs me to feed the better 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 and starve to death worse 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘.

I hear this metaphorical preferential feeding/starvation regiment echoing out of youth NA meetings, corporate wilderness retreats, & insurance subsidized tele-counseling via ＺＯＯＭ™.

This metaphorical preferential feeding/starvation regiment is supposed to be of some therapeutic utility, provided the 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖋 I choose to nourish is better and the 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖋 I choose to kill is worse.

This is not my parable, it’s a crµêl parable.

Because it takes a long time to starve my 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖋 and it is longer than I am willing to watch my 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖋 suffer.

The 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 of this parable are metaphor— the meat I feed them is ꝎinfiniteꝎ if I choose . . . metaphorically.

I won’t starve myself, all or part.

I choose Ꝏ infinite Ꝏ meat.

My parable of two 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 goes like this.

Inside of me there are 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘.

I toss out meat with abandon.

The 𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖗𝖞 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 stay livid, the 𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝔂 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 stay content, and the 𝖘𝖆𝖉 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 go on whining.

And they 𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 often.

Making 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓬𝓾𝓫𝓼 of ever more ambiguous virtue/sin . . .

( Č𝐑Ⓨρ𝐓Ꭵ匚 / ùηĐᎥ𝔰𝐜ẸʳภĮᑎ𝐠 / 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖘 / 𝐛𝓪ғ𝐅ℓⒾήᎶ / ᖇ𝓔Ｖ๏𝓁ｕ𝕥𝓲𝕠ｎ𝓪яч / ĤＥ𝒹𝓸𝐧𝕚ştＩ𝕔 / 𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖚𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖔𝖚𝖘 / 𝓬𝓲𝓻𝓬𝓾𝓲𝓽𝓸𝓾𝓼 / 𝓰𝕣𝐄𝔸𝐭 / 𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓪𝓭𝓸 / 匚𝕆-𝔡ｅᑭ乇𝐧ᗪ𝓔ᶰŤ / ˡ๏ʸαⓁ / η𝔞ί𝓋є / ᗪⓤ𝐩𝓛ᶤＣ𝐢ＴØＵ𝐒 / Ⓦ𝐄ᶤℝⓓ 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 )

I rise up over my metaphor, taking in pack visuals.

The soft & saggy 𝓻𝓱𝓲𝔃𝓸𝓶𝓮, the frenzied undulations of the multiplicitous 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘.

I hear the 𝖋𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰, 𝙷𝙾𝚆𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 cacophony. I hear it as harmony— a drone to drown in.

And then, I dive in, wearing a 𝓛𝓪𝓭𝔂 𝓖𝓪𝓰𝓪 raw meat dress, double fisting fresh-skinned hairs.

In my mouth, a flaming sacred heart.

Hello 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘, I’m your container & your carrion. I’m here to feed you my life . . .

░i░n░d░i░s░c░r░i░m░i░n░a░t░e░l░y░

I want to become my pack of 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘, none shall starve.

You are who you eat.

Ｆｅａｓｔ．

And when the 𝖜𝖔𝖑𝖛𝖊𝖘 are snoozing . . . meat drunk . . . quiet & satiated . . . bellies stuffed full of me to bursting . . .

𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦.

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“—and I was no longer able to doubt that the lot and the infinite tumult of human life were open to those who could no longer exist as empty eye sockets, but as seer swept away by the overwhelming dream they could not own.” Georges Bataille, Tossa, April 29, 1936