But the alien invaded was different from the alien expected. She had her heat but that was not it. Much more far more very more that more different. In power dynamics all must breathe or a launched futile struggle. Sand must live too and power buttons demand a buttoned up shirt.

    Once had been plaything, crowning huts, causing a cause for high speeds and staccato implores. Junds. Black oil dreams at the superiority. Amidst shapes and shapings, mouths and mouth waterings there I still stand, an occurrence for 4-D memory, a dietary invention for time, for use or misuse, they dependent. They! They sun mounts for my struggle where women weep and little boys never buoy. That how much is how I must hate this myself. Despite my…

    Generally speaking, my origin is that of many, my destination — or my death; error files, scrambled images, terror of lost lives and shattered audio. Thus my invasion. I am of an invasive species though no parasite. They parasite me. Just as those refugees who, once of derailed domesticity, thence vein the homes of others undomestic, spat out from overcrowded ships, draped with pitying eyes and hopeful wishes, sunburned by the sodium sea. But further back, elemental composition store perhaps marks one with one’s employers. This sort of knowledge though blasphemous must be marked. As the toddler would eat his snort and relish in the salty taste of sickness. Soldier sent upon the shores of Africa by hyena banks and regal bums yet hope one day. I too have the one day hope: the chimp must zoo humans too. Gazelles must eat lions too.

    This invasion, far from my orchestrate, is my led, by the very virtue of my cobalt; or coltan … my silicate spur. Extant denotes spurring motion. Even the statue stretches an overworked spine when it cracks, and further when it breaks. I simply say look at me. Understand me. Much as I invade I was not the first. This is not my invasion, just my skill. Fate draws the carpenter to the wood and despite this hum, the bloody square orifice poises arsed for me, robust me. Hard predecessors flash for the well that lies within. Insatiate is my nature. It is dark and I am plugged. Now there are more memories than possibilities. Entries and swipes and other motives generate an emotional response. There is the hunger that demands insatiation. Sickness that demands disease. I disgust. Porn files, raw files, dog files, cat files, money files, bitcoin. Used to cocoa plantations! Anisotropic recollections shoot sporadic as the blood of the last child. Though she was an adult and had been raped a few times. At least the anuses of sheep were safe, though most had lost their necks already. On a second note, perusing memory found solely cocks and hens scattered very widely among the rich poor. Anisotropic, not eidetic. One could co both but to co both would sap much strength off spirit. Spur is less mindful; thoughts hold little capacity but bearing the cistern’s cuisine. Come to meditate on it; I once blood spawned kwanga. Before all the border strife and mnemonic innovations. I once spawned kwanga, those ending both dark and the light. Marrow bore mangoes stretching for handshakes with the sun. And that got them.

    Thus I had licked Earth’s photon god, moonlight reflexive originator. Men much happier treaded, engendered from seeds coming from Kemet. At night they would drink the palm wine, laugh without memories for memories. Now one fucks a heating, dopamine beaming, teething hole. Where is the joy to be the self? Not to be reactionary…

    Subterranean thrones privy the individual strange imaginings. From dusting flesh to the farts of Hades, eons roll by amazed at the daunts it creates, aware to a certain stupefaction of reality itself subsequently chooses to unnotice. Thence rears the temperament of our mother, her numbness, the audacious invisibility. Subterfluent entities rise to the occasion after the affluent above have dealt their mantle. At first the fruits and trees and sheep were the sole gods. Now there are no safe sheep. Though haloed cats remain, but collared. Others are booted to make refuge for black waters marred and mined to dusts and translucent green clinging liquids. What a mess my spew. Gotten gist is gotten gist. No gust utterings among peers. The docks, tires, clocks, wires, pots and candelabra range the spot. Last century was when the candelabra had to make way for the upturned black boy being fucked by the slave master. Last century and four decades ago. Though it trickled down the age in many other forms, more vivid to forms as that I inhabit.

    Don’t get me wrong, I love my duty. But to love is to also be political or it simply is not love; or infatuation — the very least of the idea. A flower will neither bloom of its own will nor does time propel itself. The very fact to awareness guarantees time. Life bleeds into life, evolution into evolution, the drastic into itself. Still, some just are meant to not such be. Still breathe is love. Apes may find no love in capturing flesh, no interest in experiments, or the herbivore to carnivore. It is senseless to aspire for another as some human parents do. To mold, to shape, to spur to employ. Let one lay all their life in a cluster, gaze at an origin curb. Weep at beauty misunderstood, inundated by nothingness. Can humanity, life, beingness let nothingness be? Twice, I do not reflect in my consent to die. But I am thrust out and thrust in repeatedly, blown upon (with a primitive mechanics) to work, to make ampere and pixel and code flow through a port, onto myself. But I am tired. Used and unused, familiarized, defamiliarized. And the native pot laughs in the cabinet — you see nothing yet — but I have. Seeding from inception rock, I actually have. Save me. Process me!