Frederik Marks 

Do thou faithful unto death/
Beneath the sun of the dead bird

My inner world is in turmoil, in tension between two forces. Two magnets that allure me equally, wrenching me, squelching me between them. Tearing me apart.

Within the boundaries of the factory I am unable to attain the Madonna. Every time I get close to a complete union, an all too familiar grimace destroys all beauty, breaking the  beams of silky white, reinstalling thick air drenched in the darkest red. I escape the factory, though in the jungle the whore is equally unattainable, equally unfulfilling.

The rising influence of the termite mound destroys an unconscious in chains, trapped in the factory, by myth and restriction. I lie lifeless on the floor of the shower, scarred by the bathroom tile depicting the demeaning chalice. I arise, now able to unify with the whore. Finally, the factory collapses, the jaw of the whore has become fluid, merging with the Madonna, fading both phantoms.

The termite mound introduces a radical force for change, for psychic revolution. Though the air is also filled with madness, a force powerful enough to eat you up from inside, leaving nothing but barren bones, imploding the very foundation of the mind.