Meteor Lactation

We are suckling-babies at the nipples of this planet, with a ceaseless, insatiate voraciousness for life; all the sap of Earth: all the lactation of the Mother-Meteor! The solar nebulae: the gas, the dust, the stardust; solidified, liquefied: circled, re-circled, and recycled: The vital juice of the aeonian volcanic rock: ever-regenerating, for generations, in the perpetual circle of life and death… We rise, tall like corn, and we fall like trees in the winter freeze: erected, then neglected in the ugliness of old age, feared by all; When the spark of cosmic energy diminishes in the wind of time: such pride, such vitality… such deception, such debility… The walls of the soul-room are encapsulating us, squeezing us in the terrible tenebrae of our ignorant, interior obscurity: There is no escape into the primeval, verdant meadows of youthful dreaming! No one wants to know what is to be expected at the end of breast-feeding; at the end of saturation; We only keep on suckling, until teeth-less, life-less: until the worms start suckling on us.