the portcullis grinds to a halt
the red, leering cyst Solipsism
tints the looking glass
:blustery,
warm afternoon breeze
smoothes out the crinkling
of the wrinkly overcast soul
as a hurried little sheikh,
an aged caucasian woman
blisters past me
on two be-tighted legs
tensely betwixt
solemnity and nervousness;
i wonder why i hurry everywhere
a man with one full human leg
on crutches
in an astronauts effigy
tripods a very deliberate but rickety path
slowly leaps his spider arms
his cyborg motorcyclists helmet
obstructing none but the least aware
from peering at his character
"doting on windmills
every day is a partition
the great event; theatre epic,
"Life!"
presenting everything ever,
filtered and engraved
by humanitis
there's you and who you were,
where you've been,
how you're going to be
and in no personal regard
--Psyche is a selection of the universe,
propped up by consciousness.
it exists in no True sense,
but it is as it does
due processes aside."
--to paraphrase his silent proclaimation
look into the annals and you may deduce
humanity has made a rather good run of things
we no longer stick each others heads on pikes
or burn women who float at a stake
blot out the eternal sunshine
the well-wishing hypocrite of everymind,
who robs us of choice
hovering the carrot of dreams in place
learn to live through the brimstone rain and choking dust
because volcanoes give birth to islands