You’ve been moved two tiers, eh?
Underfoot you feel a table
And you are, for them
You had been a diminutive seat, but
Have been hereby promoted to ottoman.
A fire hazard you may present at present
But a greater gift to weary walkers than an
Ottoman, there is yet to be.
Count your cushions, and your lucky stars
Will find you warmed by heated sitters
‘Til around comes a professor
A second scolding to deliver
And an ottoman to demote
To lowly seat.

I.
The backdrop changes before me and I think I am anew
To be anew, to be reborn, one must have been, at first
Have I been, at first?
Perhaps, and yet. . .

II.
I’ve not yet been here, quarterly
I’ve only been in passing
Sitting in the space of life
With fleeting moments lasting
See me and time we know the score
We know we’re not exclusive
Yet staying codependent makes
Our love affair abusive
Time wipes the scene and all is gone
And then it starts replacing
But I can feel the difference and
I see the lines erasing
There’s not much left that used to be
I point this out at will
But newness covers like a moss
The oldness dead and still
Perhaps I’m new, or not yet old
But I have seen the stage
Set with dirt and wood and rock
And ink upon the page

III.
Do I think I have agency? Perhaps I do, but then
It seems I start to do something and do something again
And the old that was repeats itself with new baubles and bells
Dressed up nice, repainted, and the old as new resells
Do I think I have agency? Perhaps I don’t, and yet
I’d rather play my fight with Fate than lie down dead, I bet
And the predetermined actions I will act out as a player
The Game of Life’s veneer shall soon obtain another layer

IV.
There’s a war within this corporeal host
And there’s not yet a clear winner
There’s half that’s fed, half that’s naturally stronger
Brute force and technique
Jesse and Cass, and the sun might be coming
But who will burn?

V.
And of course it ends here, because of course it always had to
The crisis, this crisis, dressed up as though it were something new
There’s nothing new that comes from me:
I am derivative.
See me in the words of giants, see me in the spittle of groundlings
I will bind, with my arms I will bind
Feel them as vines, wrap around you and press
Girth upon your body
A bound book we shall be, and I will bring you to the well
Down shall we fall, Prospero’s tome, bound book’s tomb
I will bind you.
And in the absence of binding I shall seek you out
I will gaze for your eyes in a crowd:
Brown, blue, green, hazel, gray
Feel them upon you as a microscope, focusing
I shall find you.
Though with finding and with binding,
two shall join as one
Can there be two alone as one?
For the two exist as funhouse mirrors of
Past experience current
There will never be another one quite like
The other one you were quite like
The other ones you’ve been quite like
‘til now
And so with arbitrary electus tempus
Now is not the same
Today is but the only day
Today is not a copy of
The days that came before.
And of course it ends here.
Where else could it have begun?

It wasn't that his wax was gone, nor that he fell from sky
'twas holy flames of divine wrath made foolish child die

I know what it is to be tasteless
I've seen past the fountain of youth and
I've drunk of those ripened peaches
I've lain me down in heather

Stay by my side through this
sobering experience;
I know what it is
And I know
I am it

I've seen the fires of heaven
And the swirling flames of hell
Both are warm and frightening
And neither holds me well

Upon the breast of Satan
There's pinned a copper star
His wings are dead and broken
He calls me from afar

Upon the head of Jesus
There sits a thornéd crown
His feet and hands are pierced through
He tells me to lay down

I see my little brother
Walk barefoot the line between
His hand beckons my presence
To a place I've never been

I've seen the flames and fire
And I've seen a chubby hand
The more I see of each I find
I'm not prepared for the other land

Turbulent calm
I drift darkly on your words
The subtlety of language and the
Way you paint your worlds
How privileged, I, can be brought in
Led by your silver tongue
May I ever venture here,
With you, Janet Snakehole

A readied man prepares himself for the schedule he can keep
But readied men are not prepared for the undetermined deep
The readied man will hold his page of dates and names and numbers
But those prepared for certain doom uncertainty encumbers

In I ride with fist held high
Burning gleam in either eye
Shouting upward at the sky:
“Burn the syllabi!”

Those ready men with paper sheaves, fledgling spears, and Pilot pens
Will find that with the chaos waves of fractal truth the world bends
And in the bending all exists as nothing more than blank code
So ready then your warships, but you’re tacking down the wrong road

In I ride with standard high
Burning gleam in either eye
Shouting upward at the sky:
“Burn the syllabi!”

The Four Horseman: Complexity, Uncertainty, Recurrence
Trajectory will maximise Lyapunov’s occurrence
Put on your scheduled armour and when you ride that rigid line
Remember that you penned it in and you claimed it would be fine

In We ride with fists held high
Flaming embers in place of eyes
Shouting ‘til the echoes die:
“Burn the syllabi!”