spacetime 11.27.11

we do not know what time is but it kills us nonetheless it moves us forward towards our curled gray bodies, even though it itself moves in any direction it wants time and space are cold and blood and if one speeds up the other slows down we are moving away from our wholeness in a stream of the cosmic birth always moving into lonely spreading chaos, and never into butter gut our church house has no roof and is made of entropy: the wild fling of it and the body of spacetime is splitting by the shred of antigravity so soon time will decay like us into black but our jaws would have rotted away by then.