The following message from BUTCH, dated December 28, 2000, was preceded by a series of convulsions that were interpreted by That Which Provides Food to represent sounds that could be rendered Twylla in the Roman alphabet. Such convulsions in humans often precede dissociative transpersonal states. This is by the far the most puzzling of BUTCH's utterances, and it is possible that she had been mounted by a very powerful spirit. Rather than a unit, these are truly fragments of something too big to squeeze through even as mighty an iguana as she.
Bodies falling to the ground
dropping from the sky in heaps
falling, pounding, hailing
on the earth in damp staccatos
yet not injured
ecstasy waits at ground zero
the force of impact is the gust of life
the planet rushes up to greet them, panting
the trees lean forward
branches catching bodies
falling at all angles
faces in all expressions
clothed and naked
fed and hungry
No pile of bodies but pummelling, pummelling
constant contact with ground
Fire and dresses in dancing striations
fixed with ammonia of nitrous oxide
and dead televisions tied to nighthawks
Sunset orange bloodspurt chases gray away
Enameled coffeetins rush out of tombstones
Earthen waxwork horses delight
Praying to Delaware in the midnight station
Huddling around a cigarette trying to get warm
Tentacles and gelatin in the icebox
and cool cola tasty all the way to the moon
A comet in five years
brings disaster of abandon
first joy then spilled martinis
as the monsters enter the party
Serenaded hush of blankets
Blue and soft in mother's horizon
Cares are lighter than air and drift up
There will always be smiling at the end
where the trees were is sky the color of old ladies' hair
below the leaves and bent twigs of late fall, almost winter
but a warmth in the wind has awakened me
as it keeps the leaves' day green, night frost after night frost
rolls over them as it may and make them go limp
and brown as a monk's robe
Truth is burning in the air, he said,
Turn and look to see it behind me
It is a pure blue and green country
that is just beyond the earth and sky
Unhand me
unhead me
unbody me rolling to the sea
and let the waves play on my absence
Just the sun sparkles would be me
Sky and shore me
surf and cloud me
Sand-dollar me, round and white on the beach
and let the crabs use me as a halo
So holy would I be
He was well developed for a god.
There's only so many things left to leave
Before we leave for good
Modupe Olórun
©2001 Gregor Everitt