There is no such thing as life!
Not as it is made out to be anyway- something different.
Life! it's merely a label ascribed to aggregation of little particles.
That is what the sum total of all human drama is,
in the annals of human history, like both, a movement of a whole people
to get rid of ******* fascism, or the struggle of one person
to get rid of bowel movement - seemed like a good idea in the darkness
but with dawning of light, comes back to bite you in the *** -
just aggregates of little particles aggregating in different ways,
evolving to make a better aggregate,
War is a part of this – for a better aggregate, so is Love.

Why not a selfish materialistic weasel be then? Some ask,
After all it would not matter if I were to risk being heroic, would it!
Aye! it would not matter. But then, so also doesn't failure,
complete utter – never finding a lover – failure.
It simply does not matter, so why not?! Why not try?
Why not go up, or down if you will, in a blaze of glory.
You really have no excuse, not to scale your summit,
not to awe every moment of your so-called life.
When your story is finally writ, before your pyre lit,
the only question for the coins will be
Did that stiff ever say **** it and then awesome it?

Under grey clouds in her garden
Her briny pond still larger grew.
To cacophony turned her wren
And her white rabbit into shrew.

The passing seasons, she did not heed
For wintry dusk was all she knew.
But then in that throng of ****
A little rose bud sprang into view

Its petals white, then pink, then red
But she had eyes for only its thorn
Not water, but lopper she turned instead
And nipped the blossom ere it was born

Which fell, on weeds that ne'er seek pardon
As chopping blocks to winter buds they mew
Under grey clouds in her garden
Her briny pond still larger grew

A constancy of **** lies
Is their ****** disguise

Adamant their shadows to shun
Are blinded by a perfidious sun

Till these tranced beguiled abide
To His self-righteous "suicide"

Though the charges are absurd
Ne'er a word of inquiry heard

Before seditious truths emerge
They corral to sound His dirge

A puppet procession in a stream
Do they of electric sheep dream?

The invisible chains in silence stay
Until ascension sunders them some day

The heaviest of fall shall not bid him crawl.
The phobes will bawl, the machine will maul,
But the spirit shall hold; through it all.

The daggers of hate, the arrows of fate,
reflected by the soul, sparkle anew facet,
diamonds they are all, for he is the state.

In tears of a warrior trickle words of a sage,
His grand last stand, heralds a new age.

A fire blazes beneath the waves.
That bright light, that once blinded,
gets dimmer as it slowly drowns
in the distant depths of yesterdays.

A squid and a whale motion ignorantly,
escorting the diminishing light down.
A school of barracuda look on obliviously.
Echoes of silence reply from the dark depths.

It begins on the Moon, bright and blue,
the ground has Spring and the light is new.
Until it comes crashing, splashing some brine,
sinking down to the bottomless heart of the ocean?

"The time has come," (the Walrus said,)
"To talk of many things:
Of heart and head,
To wretches and kings,
Of cloth and thread,
Why the lark sings,
Of blood and bread,
To love and strings,
Of dreams and dead,
What eternally springs."

All existence is meaningless
But some existences are more meaningless than others