They would have us believe anything other than the truth: that everyone and everything will die; that all nations, ethnicities, religions and structures will fall away into rubble, into nothingness, and be forgotten; and that even the planet itself will be reduced to atoms and melt away, like black milk, into the cold deeps of empty space. And in the face of this truth, nothing matters ultimately but each specific, fleeting instance of individual being, the shape we give to each momentary coalescence of atomic particles into a particular human situation.
That's all we have. That's all there is. That's what we kill when we murder someone. That's what we strangle when we keep them down with our boot on their throat.
--Chris Floyd
Broken-light: work-for-the-night-is-coming
Death Fugue
Paul Celan, 1920 - 1970
Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night we drink and drink we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing he whistles his dogs to draw near whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand he commands us to play for the dance Black milk of morning we drink you at night we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime we drink and drink There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta your ashen hair Shulamite we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie He calls jab it deep in the soil you lot there you other men sing and play he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue jab your spades deeper you men you other men you others play up again for the dance Black milk of morning we drink you at night we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime we drink and drink there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie Black milk of morning we drink you at night we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue he shoots you with leaden bullets his aim is true there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland your golden hair Margareta your ashen hair Shulamite
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