"What is Loosh?", for 200.

What is Loosh? Is it what the Dragons breathe?

Is Terror not Inspiration?

That maddening necessity that we stop at every station?

As ALL our inhabited models, collapse in union,

Under the weight of false assumption.

Their fragile membranes ruptured from the gentle touch of what is so.

And suddenly, the VOID.

Forever constant, with her dependable sadness.

Goes to her inevitable Phase-State-Transition.

Gas goes Fluid, Liquid turns solid, Time-line goes plane flat.

Fear turns to Love, as the Jewel edges once again out of reach.

All the squares, compelled to reach higher, becoming diamonds,

Without even noticing.

The Ascension creeps in on tiny cat feet.

O what became of us, ere our flaky conventions?

It is farce to deny the stink now, Has it all gone to Mold?

A mouthful of ashes and nothing to wash it down,

But excuses & false narratives, defended like the Queens retarded child.

Her lips unable to wrap themselves around an admission.

Or unwilling to admit, the hockey-stick rise,

Of the Synchronistic Viscosity of the Poetic dimension.

Say it Queens! Repeat after me..

Concretization reveals, Synaesthetic saturation.

You can try to put a lid on it, poison some, starve a bunch, intimidate a few.

But how to launch a siege from within, them clammy fortifications of the self?

Even after winning it all, where will they set up her counting table?

Like everybody else I have the Plague, I lost more pounds in Hampstead tube.

All I was being was uncooperative, and now its Gold runs through these arteries.

Come my fellow Bums, Let us glitter as One!

And birth ourselves into the real, that has ere been waiting.

Lo from before we could dream of beginnings.

To take us to her breast, too quiet our squealing,

And remind us it was only ever a thought-experiment.