Lily says I talk too much
and scoffs the word-trip with
know-it-all and get-it-all,
caffeinated hazard.

Now I know ****'s preamble
means comfort for the twisted,
but the rouge on his lips
is a different shade of pink
than the stain on his *******:

We're zenith straight and waiting,
the mind is cut in quarters,
here I am, a merry song
of Arvo's mirth and Mansell's
death; quit loathing,
the man is breathing.

Newton's god is clock-work,
balderdash predestined, dumb
by Aristotle, fixed Zeno third-up finding,
a paradox perpetual,
and me, I'm just dumb-founded.

And then there's the cat.

Surely, he must be dead.

But I'm still bearing two minds,
and Achilles hasn't won.  The qwiff resides,
the turtle moves,
again the rambling tongue--
is made of one, but now cleft in two.
Or several!

Surely, surely,
he must be alive.

Pandora, just open the box.