I wanna hold ‘em like they do in Texas Plays
When the first star spat out its massy effusions, she was there. When the infinite placenta of the cosmos was first torn open, she was there. In the shapeless, inchoate nothingness before matter and entropy first emanated into reality, she was there. To such an alien consciousness, sentient beyond the constrains of time imposed upon our understanding of the world, the existence of humanity is the faintest flickering in an endless midnight, a cosmic improbability that is simply waiting, inevitably, to collapse back into the seas of statistical chaos. It is impossible that she could care for the extancy of mankind, an absurd to even conceive that she could feel compassion, empathy, or understanding for beings so limited and fragile. But nevertheless, we have attracted her interest. The follies of us uplifted apes must light some amusement or intrigue within the boundless complexity of fractal selfhood that is analogous to a mind within her, and the least scintilla of her omniscient attentions have been turned to the terrestrial sphere of our home.
Can’t read my, can’t read my, no he can’t read my
She remembers Rome, remembers Babylon, remembers the savage and degenerate hominids that dwelt in caves before fire and language had made men of apes. Ever since the inception of our sapient species, she has called out to us, in a language whose phonemes and syllables are as the pulsating event horizon of a black hole to mere human minds. Those who hear her song fall to madness, their minds consumed within the vastness of her alien beauty. The asylums are filled with her children, all selfdom shattered by her greater, more majestic presence, and each generation seriatim has been rendered more susceptible to her call, the intricate spirals and helices that pattern the prerequisite sensitivity propagating crescenticly. All mortal art is the merest emanation of her into our culture, image and word and music all unknowing replicas of her beauty.
And baby when it’s love if it’s not rough it isn’t fun
Better that our world was gouged out by far-flung asteroids hurtling through the void, or torn asunder by some force incomprehensible. Better that life never was, never walked out from the sea than to have her walk our Earth. But the hapless stock of humanity is not so fortunate. She has sheathed an infinitesimal seed of her essence within a couagulate husk of life, biotic matrices of teratoma that counterfeit humanity. Inhuman and unearthly is her aspect, though the failing an unscient senses of mankind see it not. How weak is the mind of man, to be reduced to a hollow thrall by the mere sight of her, consumed by that simulacrum of beauty! Already her mortal assumption has spread tendrils throughout society, drawing an atavistic and inhuman cult unto her, her Haus.
‘Cause I’m bluffin’ with my muffin
And she sings, sings out to mankind with the polyphony of madness. At her voice, arms and legs unbidden dance, raving in spastic gyrations like the whirling limbs of galaxies. She awakens lusts unspeakable, the suppressed concupiscenses of our primitive and inhuman forebears. And these are merely the least preludes of her reign, a paltry prevision of what she will wreak upon our world. When she casts aside the falsehood of face she wears, unveiling her true and alien form like an imago bursting forth from a chrysalis of gossamer dreaming, she will open her squamous mandibles, revealing a gaping maw whose gargantuan admeasurement will scrape the celestial zenith. And she will sing.
Muh-muh-muh-my po-po-po-poker face, po-po-po-poker face
No prophet, no power of human imagination has ever had the capacity to conceive the apocalypse that she will harbinge. The most rudimentary axioms of society will shatter and implode upon themselves at the first notes, and all the cities of our doomed world will run with blood and sanguine-slick offal before the end of the first measure. She will shatter all selfhood outside the bounds of her own cosmic ego, breaking all of man and beast to her will. When the last stars die, when the last nebular clouds are swallowed by the maw of whirling black holes, when all of reality is rent by the inevitable mandates of entropy, Earth still will remain, illumined by her awful presence. And mankind will be immortal, blind idiot gods stripped of all humanity.
And all we shall hear is Radio Gaga.