The concrete yields naught but the flesh of time. The body though decomposed sculptured by the wind and frozen rain clung easily to the refuse-sack. The songsters finished now packed, laughed and drove on oblivious of a dying moon and the birth of a rising sun. The van would cough. The van would splutter. The van would choke. The van would stop. The van would open. The van would empty and the processes would begin once more.
Aggregate mixed with bone. Skull crushed with ease of rock laid a solid foundation for the wings of oblivion that led you to my door. The glass construct though tangible remains inert as we sit and chat of brighter things and children’s laughter is heard far below the distant clouds; now gathered from the north in order to distort our dissertation.
There is a world in which you inhabit. It is a construct world. There is a world of which I do not inhabit nor ever could for I understand the nature of its construct. My world has no animation. My world is inert and affords nothing of your comfort, your scented candles or your remorse at this acknowledgement.
In the pantheon long ago the sandalwood smoldered in honour of the dead but those were the fables of the seanchaí. The bodies lay torn fed by desert skies, plundered, rotting and unadorned.
The construct is designed solely to capture the imagination. In this way self-replicate in its creative intention. Pavlov orchestrates the workflow. The bell rings. The doors open. The crowds flow. The bell ends. The doors close. The crowds cease their passage to and fro long since dissociated from the concept of an uncontaminated superior form of creative hell.
Time is a construct. Dark follows light. Segments of flight are assigned. The narcotic is infused and your heaven, as you imagine, rather than your corporeal destruction will then ensue.
© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011
