Tarpit, by Zuzana Susu

you reach your soul when tumbled in the tarpit, sticky
fingers, jetblack hairconditioner, granite walls hewn out,
of the earth, you have fallen in at night and your pulses
are scratched. you have reached the absolute depth:terra

yes then you touch your soul and artificial answers do
not help anymore. it is not easy to climb out of that pit
not becoming a laBrea artifact. and yet we’re bones and
flesh with thoughts (some) and feelings,skin primordially

under the laws ?, rather chaos, of astrophysics we thrive,
float through the universe being as alien as what we made
cinema about. extremophiles on earth living in water boiling
at 125° or under the ice at minus 45° (C.) or in sulfur coats

thrive nevertheless, on earth. in the deep ocean are rivers
which facilitate flourishing anoxide tubeworms, crabs, soft
waving algea, anaerobe micro-environments,where we never
thought to find life. this perhaps to say we’re not so special

we’re not the fucking endgoal of a linear development but
just contingent (accidental) ‘sums’ of our environment
which we now in decades fuck up irreversible. and for our
co-inhabitants. for our children, Baron, Donald.ah fuck them

in an American series about the spark of life settled on earth
it ended, how could it else, with the humans, our fantastic
brains, language, society, sedentarity. we ruled. they never
spoke of viruses, plants, animals, microbes, funghii. daHood

our selfimage is as big as our extremities are small and
overrated, masculinity as an elixir of testosterone in this
violet perfume fiol. however, oestrogens, enzymes, hormones
other than for reproduction shall spread like ink in water

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