Perfect Lineage; I Couldn't Have Done It Better

Work from the past (2002 risen!), updated heavily for the here-and-now. Enjoy:

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Man, oh-man-oh-man,

I can't believe how much I'm entranced with my own smell. Quite primitive, huh? Well, it's a fact that is less characterizing than opiating, really. No, really! So, let's take this fun informatsia at face value and explore the inner workings and forget-me-nevers of time and space, of a nice place for seasoned desire; we'll find reasoning yet! So close your eyes and breathe deep(ly) on this journey, breathe deeply s'il vous plait..

It seems like only yesterday I took a small mammal and threw it in the fire for warmth, later for food. The smell of burnt fur excites me! Bones - the tiniest of bones - are all around, stand-ins for my evolutionary compatriots; they are dead and broken (and teeth-riddled). Still, it's so nice for all of you to stay, laying here and there and everywhere; I can't say no. Lo, the light is going out; the sun is, of course, the one and only constant source (of radiance). And in this moment of shining, I am alive and mating (or, at least, mate-able): I have met the one, the two and the three; we all, eventually, go the way of the cold abyss. Shiver!

Later - so much later to this frisky business - the gardens rang. I awoke, and yet still - at this point - I had no clue this Babylon scene would be a wonder in the future; I simply rose and walked through the garden, wine glass in hand. Drink and be merry, I said (and lived). Nevermind the masses; they are of a different stock and weight; so light and jaded, they've ended up a vague framework for the lives of the elite (I hardly know ye). And who am I to judge? Bang!

Could I have known any better that before long (what is a millennium anyway?) my progeny would be composing symphonies in the key of D minor, playing them in front of kings, queens who would fuck my composer genes if there weren't so many god damn aristocrats faking their love of the eighth note here, now, in an 18th century concert hall. At least these instruments render the electroheliogram of my consciousness perfectly and synchroniphenially, draining the listnessless from my brain stem.. for a brief while anyway. Roar!

Lest I forget, a century or so before, my RNA transcriptions painted the Sistine Chapel with brushes made from the most yielding of goat hair; Asia Minor, you *are* good for something. Each atom of each mechanistic cilium is ecclesiastically bonded to the next; I couldn't have constructed it better myself (though, sometimes, I wish I would have). Dream on: I could have smelled the animals' stables on an odoriferous holiday! Dank!

For now, there is work to be done: the open country awaits the wrangler and his compañeros. You see, a world of rope - tighter and tighter - is beguiling; this world is irresistible! So, regardless of the 10-gallon fashion sense - it is what it is, and everywhere - the herd circulates, the herd obeys without question, though occasionally eddies of aliment - that is, eddies of meat - form around diminutive bodies of water. And I think how quickly things have a'changed. I say: let's lead 'em straight up upon the griddle; my insides be a'rus'lin'. Sizzle!

Before long it was 2007 and clicks and swoons from alpha bit to zeta flit are the order of the day, though everything is less fleshed and carnally-satiating then I remember. But let me temper that thought with the fact that my senses are somewhat dulled; it's been awhile and awhile, and it's been awhile..

Time is a mysterious beast: time renders memories for the living, at times, too flippantly for my tastes, be-grilled or not. Still, there is a need to connect and reminisce, no matter what the outcome for humankind; it's always possible in a manner artificial (and I mean that in every sense of the word). So, when we all go the way of the cold abyss, God save the computer! Blip!

Still, all I want to do is smell my own balls. Good day!