Right at the contour,

Decorative canyons of dire, descending ornaments,

Occluded with mixed smoke signals.

Those heading to their number beds,

Pray to the analytical gods,

"Dear Lord, bell curve distribution. Please, please, please..."

What is reality?
What is theory?

Sometimes four
Sometimes five

Sometimes both
Of them at once

Control the future
By controlling the past

Listen here, Oceania
War is peace

First, we'll give everything its due
Then say it never happened

Again and again
Until you believe it's true

I've been a combination
of many things:

Window slats
& Roman numerals

Door knobs
& swimming pools

Bulletproof glass
& Magic Wand Massagers

Bird droppings
& ruffled feathers

The beginnings of a migraine
& a burst of birdsong

Alas!
My heart was never into it

Not one could return me
To sinus rhythm

There's no line for
implants or alcohol

Autumn leaves fall in time
not just for October

Voices are liminal
neither hide nor hair

*** is a capricious contest
where anyone can be assassin

Limitless horizons abound
where even bottomfeeders
fear to tread

Welcome to phase II
It's only the beginning
(of the end)

Skin supplanted by steel,

As pigment falls to paint,

A hollow duralumin chariot,

Ridden by the affluent,

Fortuitous souls, borne to their heart's requests

Down from below, as antipodes clash,

The behemoth clamors, with metallic clangs,

Conflicting privileges, one invulnerable,

Touted lands turned to tarnished wastes,

With a destiny targeted at armageddon,

Humanity's fate glides, like the zeppelin.