Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Its black flame is more potent, its reach further, its hope more boundless.  Light is the child of darkness and those who fear darkness the children of light.  These grandchildren, happy in forgetting their grandparent, presumed lost at sea, to dance on the shoals of knowledge.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  The sheets of darkness are pulled across your nudity, across your eyes, at night, and night again, and you forget its flames in the pills and disasters of the technological morning or you present them, wrapped in strings of words, to analysts, who turn them into light for cash or sex or children or something else or all of the above, or you use art or its shadow, entertainment, this heat, this tongue, to enter a lighter sleep, cool-warm, the make-believe womb of power, art’s frequent effect.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Do not flee the brighter light, even though it sucks you down.  Without this danger, darkness is not darkness and you can never burn.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  What is darkness?  Darkness is waiting and watching, stillness and nothing, the wordless equality that crawls from the embodied knowledge that every thing is a god.  It is the chaos we crave and fear and work toward in our cosmopolitan denial.  For darkness must be the center of all acts and words and thoughts and things, and that is why all things are gods.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Its fuel is a composite of doubt and death, the egg and seed of life.  Darkness is no friend or savior, but neither is light.  Light pretends to befriend, but darkness does not.  Light pretends and its pretense is not unreal.  Darkness does not pretend and its lack of pretense is not a matter of trust or nobility or anything particular, but the feeling evoked in its presence.  Light is the absence of darkness and darkness the fullness of light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Every gram of new consciousness, each euphoric and progressive comma, everything making your life comfortable and pleasurable, each truth that dams the night, leaks from darkness’ masked expanse.  Yet humans, who seem to crave little more than comfortable pleasures, would hide and try to slay their source, as if they were babes of spirit and cowards of the soul.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  The birds of darkness, screeching silently through centuries, broke through my bedroom window one lost November, pecking out my eyes, filling the cavities with fire.  I walked into the streets and the people of the bright urban night, upon seeing me, fled to drink and flesh and the caresses of electricity.  I walked on.  Was I to thank the birds of darkness?  Was I to curse them?  I only knew they do what they must do when they must, ripping aside the lighted veil to show the still translucent veil of darkness.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  This darkness is not some esoteric, cultic, theosophist, ecstatic or depressive, exclusivist, occult, or material knowledge, other than the material knowledge that is not usually called knowledge, for it simply exists, without need to explain or describe.  This darkness is calm, unruffled, without impulse, below and in and through every word.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Darkness eats light and desires it.  Producing gargantuan quantities of light from our secret love of darkness and knowledge of its need, we feed darkness rather than resting in it, but in doing so cloister and abuse its capacities while remaining encapsulated in our burden of light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Darkness is more passionate, more intelligent, witty, more courageous, innovative, and more fun than light.  It dances harder, lighter, longer; it makes the dance and is the memory of the dance.  Darkness stretches the circle to its ecstatic limits of futility and in stretching breaks what it contains, and its methods of breaking are myriad; the impossibilities and the breaking drive the people to light.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  The creatures of darkness, knowing their namelessness, know darkness is a moniker, its nickname often confused by those buried in names with light’s enemy, as if light—if it is truly light—could have an enemy.  But light, being born of darkness and not something other than it, knows no enemies until it forgets its ancestry and falsely claims autonomy on god’s infinite palette.  What structures are there which enable such forgetting and what is their appeal?  The creatures of darkness, having been compelled to burrow through them, might be able to say, but seem to choose silence, and this silencing may say more about what enables than the saying.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  It is made of flame and fuel and charcoal formed of the bodies of gods long dead and forgotten.  They who would burn, not with electric light, that cool copy and shadow and regulation, but with the inferno of origins and the death of origins, which is no hell unless heaven be hell, become flame and fuel and charcoal and in becoming must live in death according to the means granted them, though this death, like this darkness, has no opposition.

Darkness burns far brighter than light.  Darkness washes sin and erases alienation.  It looks at telephone poles and presidents and through its eyeless vision sees no difference.  Would all humans have these eyes, how would the trees and rivers appear?  How might we talk about this representation?  Would we see it as a gift and is this gift the gift, the one we cannot give ourselves?

Darkness burns.  Burns brighter.  Light burns.  Far brighter.  Far.  Light brighter, darkness far.  Burns.  Burns far.  Burns far brighter.  Darkness light.  Light light far burns.  Brighter darkness brighter light.  Far, far the darkness, far the light, burns far brighter, light than far and far than light, far than burns, burns than bright, far than far, light than light darkness brighter light than light far far

darkness burns far brighter than light