Floating like a cloud of venomous gas, suspended in a point of infinite density by the spasms of terror. Buried under the threshold of the breath of an apocalypse sent by the cosmic laws. I envy the dark metaphors that will be conceived by the artificial inspiration of the cyberorganic poets in the last intelligent civilizations. Here, only millions and millions of parallel universes within bubbles of bile. A bleak face of the vacuum, sweating a purple loaded with a primitive rage. It blinds the souls, while it bleeds itself in the spirals formed by the dying stars. Millions of destinies connected by dreamy wormholes, through which travel the compatible selfishness of similar dimensions.
Suddenly, each one of my conscience's sensations splits in many images that stretch out to become infinite quantum tunnels—dreams in different stages of evolution! That light isn't external, it comes from them. Weird, crystal beings show themselves up before me, with bloody hues shining like a hemorrhage of light. They are falling from their huge, crystal spaceship shaped like a cube. They want to scape; they're looking for help. Hurry up! Crystal creatures with a sand's past; come on!—free yourselves through each one of my thoughts; reach the freedom of my madness' universe.
I left behind me the space, bored because all the expansion. My back behold millions of galaxies exhaling puffs of burning plasma; the black holes swallow everything that once were manifested with animal, plant or mineral form— wedded with the stellar matter. The universe is homesick, its return to the childhood will allow it to get into a new cosmic topography—a return to the paradise... for it. For the energetic consciences that fought so hard under myriads of life forms, it's only a gateway to the panic. All individual energy flees; howling cries that exploit in flashes of acid light. They crash each other in the confusion of their auras—the background radiation increase, thanks to the rage and the impotence!... Disintegration is just around the corner.
I can see myself there; I'm the flabby ink of an abstract form slipping through the visions of my astral guests. A very advanced civilization of sand in a far off planet; beyond the point in which the light leaves to the darkness the counting of years. Weird rituals to worship the wind, the single and supreme god! Infinite dunes of silver sand running through the dark halls of their cities placed in flouting caverns. An harmony killed by the frantic exaltation of the stars, while sweating the fever just before to utter their final death-rattle. Now, the wind isn't a god to them, new beings of crystal. It's an intruder, a demon.
The light that awake blue in the new crystal structures, it's the new creed. All of a sudden, the coolness gets down from the gases of the galaxies that threw away their energy—the thermic death! Probably caused by wasting cosmic sperm in life forms that raise the flag of involution. Everything is like ice, empty. The energy intercourse only take place among the conqueror worms of the Dark Energy. The universe's end is waiting for us within a couple of eons. And from there, from the far future of a parallel universe, come the weird beings in search for energy. Avoiding the broken fragments of the time-space; the epileptic spasms of the black holes, with their foams of inert matter; and the stars' corpses that collapse from the gravitational nexus like the rotten limbs of a hanged man—getting lost into nothingness.
They come to me exhausted, with their transparent matter pale by the awe; melting by the eagerness of the prolonged persecution that the absolute zero keeps on in their paranoia. Yes!, how I'd like to be there, taking part in the cosmic odyssey to find a little of energy; in the battles for the possession of a black hole, in which we can exchange, as these visions show me, the garbage piled up in our collective unconscious for a bit of its ghostly light; of its gravitational energy, lacking of thermic sensibility. Why it's the universe fleeing from itself in this never-ending expansion? It's perhaps from its inner demons; from its loneliness that hasn't enough gravity to keep it nailed to its own thoughts? I got very few options for you, inhabitants of the future inorganic chaos. It's sorrowful that the cosmic death reached first your imagination—the archetype universe. The atoms disappear inside the hats of the necromancers that performance this act of black magic. You can get closer to me—the chosen one. The primitive energy from which sprang the Big Bang, it's awakening inside me... in my fantasies. Hurry up! Get into the shelter of my deadly closed fists, before the vigil's sounds split your crystal bodies with the next stage of this nightmare.
The bed sheets lie in disorder, because of the riots of the drunken ghosts. The nightmare, completely drained, hold itself fast to my memory to avoid get lost in the daily end of the oblivion. My wakefulness is frozen, as if it wouldn't like to be part of me and the visions that in this night, the deliriums of the last day masturbated over my prophetic ego. The light bulbs are getting melt by the stars' light, that from this very moment take refuge inside them. They are burning with the fire of all futuristic vision... I won't turn them off.
•Note: This prose poem belongs to the unpublished book: "Bottomless Tombs".