No sleep. Day 1 on the Dogon calendar.
My lips are crackers, while my swollen tongue tastes but harmattan dust.
These are Dog Days: rabid dogs slobber with spastic tongues;
Sweltering fevers chainreact, glowing as they foam with delirious drivel.
The radio's picked up transmissions from HR2491,
When tuned in at the ritual pulse - I could smell how it melted into Nommo's ether. ...
"Puisque vous savez si bien ce qui est hors de vous,
Sans doute vous savez encore mieux ce qui est en dedans"
("Micromégas", Voltaire) - our inside is drawn towards the outside.
Patterns emerge...
At the Bandiagara cliffs, a native swung at ropes he charmed into a DNA-like coil,
Before he plunged into the spirit world.
The Nommos, the griot said,
Will revisit us in human mould to channel the passage of souls to the white dwarf orbiting its star!
The Dama dance, Youdiou.
The Kanaga masks breathed.
Their geometric pageant made me forget the crude hands that cut them.
Like a sketch can still exude its original genius.
The stilts walked the dancers to their earthly apex,
Their lithe bodies mechanically oscillating, as if it were their last dance.
Sigui, Yougo Dogorou.
The olaburu of the Awa-society must know that the 'random' accidents tie in with an overwhelming cadence.
Butterflies in a cosmic storm. Imina-Na is everywhere.
Little do they know that their superstitions have sprung from a source much deeper,
Though dead to the world. Satellites in a cosmic storm.
The serpent is everywhere.
Let me devour the flesh and the blood of your wisdom.
For a moment I felt the lightness of being and binary vision;
I am the sigu tolo of the orbiting eyes gazing in amazement.
The inside and the outside on the perilous fringe.
These are Dog Days: rabid dogs slobber with spastic tongues.
Sweltering fevers chainreact, glowing as they foam with delirious drivel.