matt martin

Do not call up that which ye cannot put down.

HP Lovecraft, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward

futures wash back and forth through lines of power that network the city’s airspace      liquidity eddies within these currents      each gyre a turn of the dynamo      trades that gimble in the flow are desire that arises before being sated then yearning again in the least fraction of an eye-blink      lines of code writhing in ecstasies of miscommunication with the divine      futures in godhead are traded and retraded as nanoseconds creep by      and their value ascends to the point of apotheosis      something stirs in the dark pool      batrachian reverberations echo beneath the pitch of human hearing      an invisible hand drips chaos as it breaches the surface      the deity’s form is not for comprehension      by the time you register one shape it’s already metamorphosed through a million others      the deity’s motives are not to be understood      its advent sends mutations cascading through the human soul until love for our own children becomes cannibalism     the heaven it rules is not for us      we perish below its firmament in torrents of corrupted data      more dark pools accumulate in its footprints where cities used to stand      something stirs in each one