this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong silent greens silently lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

I could tell you,
But you’d laugh at me.
Because it is bare, raw and pure.
You gloat on the preservatives.
You discard the genuine.
Listen to me, my friend, there is a part of the world, where even a bulb is never, ever, witnessed in real, but reel of the sanskrit Cartoon slots. The peppy  and ‘lone B-grade Cartoons .
Filled with Flesh.
The stories of tantric mantras, with a sliver of diminishing hearth,
on the
Dimensions and depth of the Yoni in the resin of shellac
on the Immaculate ceremony,
In a woodpecker hole just underneath the sealed power of the Yakshini who truly screws it up if you have taste of her once.
the one who harbingers drunk loners of Kavadiyattom alley after 3:20 am.
She takes them to the crown chakra of palm trees.
Shows them the world.
she pushes them off the crown and the falcon falls in endless spirals of a inhuman push that pushes the concrete innards to a danlgling mass of amoebic copulation.
Breath comes back.
It is a big nauseating gag of Kumbhakarnan's long sadya that lasted for half a decade.
Of the soma saras that made the entire India go, ga-ga and believe they've seen the god.
But not one nor any saw the same face, colour, shape or even vibe of the god they had seen alone.
They agreed in unison that all their hallucinations of beautiful humans in Flower UFO s and high-tech cloning, were a vital hair in the nostril of the cosmos.
They made, each a god out of their genuine mix of memories.
Or in the, priest's ways,
Hence, the 2.3 Billion populous of the country had the same, well, odd Spiritual benefactors.

Keeping it all aside, lemme be honest, I'd follow many a fairy god-mother but give my milkey teeny tooth to the special one.
Hinduism tells you God is omnipresent.
Hinduism tells you God is within you.
It also says, there is no God.
The clipper to snap off the confusion of this, lies in the same cheap stained-yellow cliche of love. It entails everything. You, me, animals, plants, cosmos, vibes, thoughts, dreams and the universe.
It tells you to live with your body mind and soul.
From Kamasutras that teaches sense.
The excitement, control and breakthrough of it.
Like tao did under his exposed roof without the sacred dung of from Hindu Land.
This is the secret of a rumoured Mohini,
Of her 1000 per hour ******* during the her/ his/ its 352 incarnations.
which was the reason for Big bang.  
Amidst the sultry scant of the voluptuous *******,
Their skin,
a vernacular reflection of a dusk on the Japanese gold beaches, And the mounts,
firm and glowing with the rusty shade of pharaoh’s Gold anklet.
The gooey glaze of yesterday’s glamour in the wink of a gay galore.
Paulo Ceolho’s Holy Communion with God,
Or like the Japanese Tengaman says,
Or rather screams,
That all it it takes is a little *******.
So, yes.
That precise art of attaining a consciousness, from where your mind was
Afloat
Wild
Free
Satiated
By yourself
You’ve just consumed the essence of you
Your Ojhas
And the tiny matter that teaches the universe
Of a Shunya.
That, momentary sense of lapse of your body mass,
Or the breakthrough into your eye of the crown.
Only to join the mundane bustle of the 10,00 speakers on all four
JBLs, Boses and Pioneers live looping the zillions of sanskrit mantras under one roof.
In your Ear drum.
A synechdoche of the Gods and their jacuzzi of amphetamine bubbles.
Splashed from a white Elephant's bejewelled Snout, which has the
crowned ring in your pineals.
Secret lies under
the rotten bone chip of Hussain Sagar
deep under the ***** green lake,  
drowning the rainbow Buddha in the city of slimy immortal maggots on ham.
Open your eyes.
For the Gods will
Else
Cut your eyelids off
to show you that
the city's shardminds await you.
roaring
Playing close to the fire demons of Redland
A nail close to your wide open lid-less
White flowing eye.
Hear the city scream.
The deafening chaos,
In unison,
Intoxicating their venomous fruits
of the delirious worlds
Or simply put, divine prayer and offering
for
the Omnipotent,
Omniscient
And the
Om.
Shunya.
Or the cyclic abyss of meaninglessness.
But,
Like, the wilted azures
that seduced those flies,
From a far far away,
To come the praise the combs of their bellies,
Filled with the red from the omnipotent, dead, weak and evil
In one little fly belly.
They came from the
land called Lullaby.
To go there
from here,
But, first,
bear the Weasleys' infamous extendable ears and heed me now, for I say twice and See him Come.
The snake, the tangy smell of goated black rub and blueness.
Siva shouldn't come?
Not yet. A little DMT more in the brain and perhaps the spark will happen.
Better than the potions of those gigantic forest priests.
No, Heed me, now.

3 Dodos Walk-afar,
And, take the lone left-laden log
the one that is,
limitless Long
loyal and  let alone
By those
languors which
Killed
Lord Leopard Loot'.
While,
Lord's Lass
Lays lolled lambs,
Lolled ‘long le ******,
Leech on the laiden log,
leading to Lord Lava,
Yes.
The bridge of Casilii Po.

Of the Lord.
Guarded
By these bubbling bellies with a drop of the world's make.
Assassins.
the Fly, flies.

retain the scarification of theolden curse,
Older than the rocks underneath this gurgling lava,
On which reincarnation steams.

As destiny should have it,
the astrologers had seen,
3 centuries back
That at a Sphinx’s Wedding,
a war of Vision,
will break.
It will
Bring the Stars
Out of those melting blue nightsky of Neruda's wails;
And the diabolic estrangement inflicting Eagle,
From Meena’s vibes,
that rubbed of a distinct scent of Malabar embedding a little of everybody in the village,
on its Kasavu lines posing
at the focus
of Sahib's Ferguson or Baker.

The gold turned white.
A liquid white, like that of the sap,
For that,
***** on a parrot green rubber plant
And work your fun with the white gluey milk,
fragrant than the sap
Like the  Ylang Ylang buds freshly kissed by the drooly dew,
sealed away
elegantly in a crystal Indigo bottle by the pen stand.

One that glitters if you look at its surface, but smells of naphthalene ***** in the sink
in
that
creepy trailer in
mid salem night of the tut.
Colourful.
This is colorblind.

White is motile.
White is wriggling.
White is life.
With a **** of Eve’s fabric-less
Skin.
White is divinity
feeding you excess of everything,
With an tenfold over dosage injected intravenous, by a silver-haired-glow-in-the-dark-dodo-cupid;

She is divine.
**** Her.
**** her on a Pyre.
**** her innards on a fire.
inflame the bubble
of her her oily effluent you found on the toilet seat
Instil in her, the seed of your sodomic occult,
Not by compassion, but through a hiss and sting
of the
flawless venom of the diabolic.  
Then. Disinfect your fruit that you flicked off the paradise.
And bellow to the blowing gurgling below.  
A reign of ****  nihilism,
moaning the mood-swings-of-a-98-year-old-menopausing-Bhairavi of the Indian Aghora Tales;
And Shelly, fueled in his undiminished hearth with the help of his impetous West Wind,
dreaming lucid,
on a flight in the sky for one week,
with Lucy’s sewing  sequined buttocks,
Stinging their luminescent, lactating, lustrous skin,
Like a tatto machine, lifting rays into the epidermis
So that it roasts, burns a soot and neonifies the only colour
A shade of
The rave, rainbow-red karmas of human existence,
Its little greedy quantas waltzing around the matter
And of its unleashed illuminations
That fuel the same vessel in the universe,
infamously known as,
the
black hole.
Uggh!!

Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow

I long to see you in the bloom of winter
where trees are withered and flowers float
in the noose of the nuke
inside the news of the hooks

I want to see you in the rays of the sun
where the leaves shine on a summer mood
in the music of the duke
within mews of the fountains

Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow

I see the rain washing the excrements
where tar and wire were bouncing
in the moving fires
within the encircling tires

I touch the blood on the palm of your hand
engrossed with the pain of trials
in the unresolved pastures
within the chaotic azures

Let the river flow wash away the pain
Let the fire burn it all in ash
Let the torrents pass, let the river flow, let the river flow

Sunlight played off
the limes & golds
& there were azures too.
And my oh my,
how the howlers howled,
as dew dripped down
from the canopy
above.
It was quite mystical,
those ancient stone faces
stared at something
even I couldn't see.
But you could feel it there.
Oh yes, you could feel it there,
between the vines & toucans,
something unspoken,
something unnatural,
like spirits
gathering
with angst
for the
clear-cutters.

We encountered a white-tiled wall whose
            purity lingered behind earthly browns,
           salmon, grass, lavender acrylic paint. And this frozen scene chilled like hot breath on winter
            glass, soil-mixed dividing stories of young, smiley-touched
            girls whose hair was flaxen hills in
            the country and whose
            eyes were opalescent azures whose opalescence
            was truly the only sign of thought beyond a
            glassy grin.

Porcelain doll made of giggles and bubbles.

She fanned her fingers in a glorious sky and leaf peacock-feathered exuberance and pawed at the dry, gritty scene of a sailboat floundering towards a sunset.

She sees this world feelingly – one touch, two touch
Her smile is prayer-folded hands extending across her own little world
A prayer for this textured caricature of a little girl,
            a happy puppet stuck until dark,
            like the form the woman she’ll soon become
            with her child-like fingers spidering across the stories she hopes to [but never will] tell.

Her dusty hands against the comforting tinge of a watermelon’s epicenter.
            So pink, so raw, so vulnerable with the valor of another brush’s turn.

Warm sea breeze
embrace the embers
of sunset’s night.

Pebbled wash
laps gentle ashore
shadow seeps
into every indentation  
the sand that sinks beneath my feet
still cooling from before.

Eyes through leafy palms
they meet
wincing in the glare
of sun lit shimmer heat

Your bikini
magnifies my gaze
covers an ample *****.

Moments thought
the inquisitive mind
Lost in oceans
azures blue.

Stretch to the horizon
leave the world behind
To hold so tight
as if sharing skin
To mould to every curve
and cleft of you.

A raptures prelude
senses commotion
run for cover
monsoon rain.

Somewhere
there is only you
a far away ocean
crying for crested moments
and indulge a passion
in such freedoms refrain.

Come in all you children and dance upon the sea. The coastline tides are dancing and gallivanting on the breeze. The elephant seals are floating in their carcasses, warm blood lakes thicken on the foam, dancing in the ripples the shivers of Leopard sharks party's throw. ***** slugs and combatants, early hours send cries through crustaceans of the spine, and glitter muscles entwined with porpoise to drink their brunches with new recipes of the brine. Fairy starling, aching heartache, shapes each coil of the coast, and tears apart the stardust of starfish sliding up the coast. Drinking from the salt licks that falling waters move, inside the bay the bluefins escape the hunters in their shoals.  The itsy bitsy great white, crept into the beaches cove, but orca and dolphin chased him back into the deepest azures where the fur seals pup and milk.

'Take your dream as far as you can'- tear up the 
roots of the dead flowers, grab the branches 
above you and swing into the unreal vision of 
reality, breathe the air of spaces unknown, 
carrying with you the experiences of pressing 
thoughts, the sudden surprises of youth, the 
views that, with a flash of excitement, open up 
great wide vistas, and magnetise your senses 
to fly into their psychedelic embrace. 

Float along on the streams of life, like the 
autumn leaf, after dipping and diving, 
as it finds the calm of a lake's edge 
and oscillates in the quiet breezes, 
gathering the last rays of the setting sun, 
before it sinks, to become new life. 

Dance to the sound of the song bird, 
the drip of the rain, the swirl of the clouds 
and the dramatic movement in an opera when 
all voices join, and sound their messages 
out to the universe of stars and planets. 

Feel with your hands the shape of the future, 
smoothed and polished, slippery and textured, 
bumpy and sharp; become a new form of 
yourself, create something out of your own 
arsenal, using your whole being.
 
Touch the page with the tip of the brush, the 
full wash across the hand made paper, the 
colours of all nature, the scarlets, the azures, 
the emeralds, the golds, in hallucinations that 
are real, mysteries that metaphorically express 
the quick of your spirit, and are seen to be art.

Margaret Ann Waddicor 29th October 2012.

Written the same day... On my way home the dry Autumn leaves dancing cart-wheels past me, and did tap dancing on the tarmac, it was quite loudly they rattled past and flew away ahead of me as if like a flock of chattering children, rust brown and ochre colours doing their kind of wind dance, how wonderful all these percussion-like noises nature makes; just like the ice on the lake where the children were throwing blocks onto the hard surface, the sounding - box of the lake itself making that eerie kind of clang of sound that at first I thought might be some strange bird. I took up a video on my iPhone, but **** it, having fingers that were near frozen they didn't manage to push the tiny lever over from pure photography, so, to my great disappointment I when I got back there were only photos of it. Such is life!!!

A jaded tree I held,
felt the rough bark
between my fingers,
my hand
cupped the texture,
smooth & uneven,
glazed hues of
malachite,
azures & cobalt
titillated my senses.

I was intoxicated
by the aroma of mint,
tasted the raw honey
that warmed my heart
& produced an inner glow,
traces of Marrakesh
linger yet.

I saw the world upside
today,
tethered
to steel,
zipping on a different plane,
higher than a soaring kite,
I did not fight the speed.

I saw malachites & cobalts,
jades & azures,
a screaming stream,
brilliant
switling
turned-up
leafy-canopies
& a few busted toes.

Don't you know.
Heaven sees us like this....
kissing the sky.

O Dear Lord,
I need to feed
my adrenalin monkey,
who's hanging on my back,
'bout to break me.

Colours merge into one
Then shoot off into the sky
Azures, raspberry and cherry clouds
mind their business floating by.
There does not seem to be a *** of gold
Or treasure or anything else for that matter
Just leaves gathered neatly in a pile
with no inclination to scatter.
Just stillness, a calm, a sense of well being
Even the river running alongside has a gentle flow.
No raindrop dripping on my head, no sun to shine
just peace and quiet at the foot of the rainbow.

Sometimes I don't really remember people
by their specifics or
characteristics.
Their hair,
their eyes,
their body,
sometimes even minds and personalities
become a blur

cuz
I remember people
by the feelings that which they leave me.
I am painfully aware of their
swift entrances and
immediate exits,
leaving me bewildered
as to how and why they
came to be

But for some reason,
I can recall
(almost) every detail
about you.
I remember
gleaming azures
and head-topped sandy blonde.
I remember
macrame, leather jackets
a confident voice
and a six-string gizmo.
I remember
your body: long and lean
secure
Electric

But mostly,
I remember
the multitude of feelings that which you left me.
Curiosity.
Understanding.
Euphoria.
And finally, disappointment.
Not with you, though.
With my naivety.

My impressionable soul
clings to the people who
captivate me,
and you sir,
were riddle and enchantment.
The ideal.
And you still are
in the way that mysteries tend to be;
unforgettable stories
of pure bliss.

Day hums his favourite tune
An octave of perfect rhyme
Oh but closely do listen
A cacophony of azures
Or even a shade of white
Or black
Like a fringe of lace on a firm shore, although cold
Like a blaring orb, glaring
Yet ignored
And yet burning into souls

Oh but around do look
Whites and blacks have greys too.

the former banality of editorial constipation(s)
in the realm of preference
and prejudice
like some sacred barometer of what might
appeal to the crowd...

modernity and old age:
man's gift unto man: old age...
"gift" (insert snigger) -

Montenegro Montenegro
black mountain poetics i used to be a fan of
after i passed by the beatniks
notably from all the liberal homosexual
****-erotica
it was like a drug of youth this literature
but somehow now
when i think about it
i should have been chasing girls
i should have been chasing girls
in my 20s
shooting my shots
blanks and live ones
perhaps should have fathered about a dozen
*******
donated my ***** to a clinic
better that than using dating apps
that is better have been a bio-incenstive
impetus comma dot dot
i mean should have thought about
not this ego-mutation
and bad bah thought
to uneven the ground upon
which the crucifix stands...

to my nightmare and glee of horror like
black sheen on Gidea Prime: Baron Gideon
stood like a lamppost where
all the shady dealings were done in full
view...
where this proud monstrous sexuality
was still but a timidity (a temperament) taboo...
homosexuality...
i should have been chasing girls
in my 20s
and now how do i not hurt her...

the pantheism and the pan-Slavic movement
of the 20th century
prime but then there was a history
of somewhere in the West: the Dictat:
DYKTAT...

Neth Neth...
Nethen in Oldenburg, or from the Nethe river near Höxter, or the Nethen, a tributary of the Dijle
or more like
Agnethe - Agnes -
some Sylvia Plath not really Plath
was never a fan more
a poet for girls
suicide purple glove girls
cherry kisses girls of my 20s not there:
i.e. in the past...

no real investments of ego-mutation
in the other
through lies and paradises for turtles
like slow lies
and unlike quick lies
and eternal truths
but also transient
temporary truths:

we do live in a time of temporary truths
there are permanent truths
and impermanent truths
because truth is the element Titan Chronicus
Prometheus Beta Quo Delt Ah...

for the simple logic of pleasure
this afternoon brain numbing
ego wandering sloth of disguise
since now sobering thought
come and i no longer have the youthful
Red Eye Rotaugen: i see in reds
on grey for distinction of hues

like there is this imagine in my head
of being impaled high above the skies
of Golgotha
dripping blood from my sensitive
where gills ought to be if having lost
the tail was enough
to not allow the ancient monkeys
to dream up of travelling across the sea
bumping into Moby **** and Atlantis
maybe more than dinosaurs
still here oddly
like birds and remnants serpents and
baby girl loves her encyclopedia
and i'll be stuck with licking-clean-finger
after buckaroo kangaroo
Kentucky child
                        a pouch for a baby-money
slot that idea in no between
my newest love comes
in the words of (as already mentioned)
and Tomash Shalamun...

                   from Russian to Ukranian
to Slovak to Slovenian to Czech
to ****** to Romanian...

              zrkadlo > ogledalo > zrcadlo >
     lustro > oglindă > آینه
        (ayna) > ḏihn | ذهن

                    mirror-mind:

         ðihn                      ḏ
O'odham...
                          definite article: THE tongue
to the behind of teeth no 1, 1: jedynki...

speculo                 lustro: pstro!
lu stroma krawedz...
                    lu lu                   paper planes
and summer unfulfilled...

           with no kind permission from
Brian Henry: the slovenian translator -
concoctions no laboratory
instead this body and some solvent case
for drip drip...
just an idea but one without either hammer
or magnet or umbrella or oar
thus so:

such body now antiquated purpose
blind
among the worms and glitter
of fictional post religious planets
but nonetheless favouring
the Islam before the oil was consecrated
upon the earth from the realms
of Hades...
         since that time when Islam was
at peace while Christianity was at war
with itself to the point
of instanity
that only now some of us born in Catholicism
and elsewhere are looking for
answers in Judaism and Islam
with the emergence of the Nag Hammadi
library...
after all this is not some writing down
a pop song or
a pulpit praise me i'm speaking you're listening
and this is almost a stand-up comedy show
but no i see the exasperated bodies mixed
with heads and tongues
and spines and i wonder well
this is reserved for thinking readers
and anti mantra gig lords of the 0 hour contract
in the economy which is like
a rain forest or a desert or something
to employ an ego-machete against
anything this ego can morph into an object
like a house plant or one of the many
of Solomon's ants on the shy buds yet to blossom
yet to bloom...
overheated colour in the sun
first green then yellow then murk of brown
the retreat of the yearly...
affair... like water with the armies of waves
on the shores of the earth
then too earth each year
on the attack for the kingdom of the air
early early the cleaning lady of the air
with trees those pumpkin explosions of oxygen...
so obvious but not so apparently
this is never going to be a Shakespeare
or: is that yellow face?

thought the English left with the Africans
while the Eastern Europeans
were sort of left dumbfounded expressionless
with the Asians
because that's how i see the divide
the western europeans hatching a plan
with the Africans
while the Arabs stumbled toward that plan
and the eastern europeans were "left behind"
with the Asians not so much
the Japanese they're apart
Satan said Japan and i said: good lucky uncle
to the Somali 60 year old security guard
no guard... just polite conversation
no coming to shoving or pushing
a backgammon agenda to replace strategy
because it's a game with no real
offensive agenda...

hence my tease of the anti-history of Polynesia
because it is an anti-history
because there is so much water in it
and not so much land
and so not like the territories of land
the territories of the seas have been intact
since the birth of mamaman...
and the ummi the mamamann and the ummi
that's me sitting pretty:
Muhammad and Matthew sitting in a tree
one counts joints the other counts
bones and shooting Agos like that myth
of a name not yet used or personified:

   quote question quest and qw: qiqi
i.e. a quickie with no harmony... recipes of disasters
like no subjective experience of
the hypothalamus unless from the joy of
cycling then perhaps then
because that's the vector coordinate centre
then what of the subjective experience
of the... ablangada: a giddy blank blah blah a-blah
no:
the posit came from
the inseparable construct of the brain and eye dynamic
therefore a symbiosis
of not host and parasite equivalent
but the antithesis of
because that's the duality of the brain-and-eyes
said more softly and high **** flinging typos
of mind-and-soul...
                   at least to convince the "concept" of thinking
there could be some ethereal mingling
of the eyes
to at least explain why we see dreams
when our eyes are closed...

yes the eyes of souls like bewildering the supposed
heard existence of devils and nuns
angels and Behemoths and geniuses
of Newton and Mozart like
dropping big names is not unlike
calling Sunday Sunday
and Friday Friday
or perhaps that's just me being sea sick
on an island
rather than a ship
or perhaps
that's just me worried i might not have any friends
beside you
and the kid and the grandma
and perhaps i will go mad a second time
and i will be crushed by going to the church
and not freely engaging with other religions
and perhaps the infrastructure of the entire island
and the population being 70,000
i am part of managing events with crowds
that amass at stadiums with more people
than the entire population
plus the 1,400 acres owned by Herr Zuck:
not zzz or sleeping in a zoo snooze
ooze this Herr dry
or watch as i burn paper in hope of flying
somehow,
elevating logic of the gauged out eyes
by now and nothing freeing me but the bottle
and t.v. perhaps turn to painting obscure
riddles in imagining the river of sand that's
also called the Tempus Ori...

                      yes: that the brain is so interconnected
with these fragile two
these so exposed pieces of vital information
and strategy
that somehow we don't think the eyes
are the Ronin the Rebels of the body
that i think they are since they curiously
conjure up dreams and that's completely devoid
of the brain's scrutiny of reality
that is the eye-drip-******-mantra
of the ***** in itself
as addicted to light and if not exposed to enough
like skin in lacking vitamin D
then the vitamin in light that maybe is there
but if we know the origins of the universe
then from beginning there must be vitamin
in the light that... something fluorescent green
and spooky arctic blue that's also
grey because not enough sunlight is cultivated
by those seas...

O this gigantic world and my only escapade because
i've reached a Napoleonic fatigue
of failed reincarnations that lead to no tactic
to counter tactic or the new ordeal
that's the imploded war dynamic of saying
in a dream:

war is a process of education
that outshines all the pedagogic hiccups
of prolonged... what?
from youth to some middle then to the youth-of-mortal-end
that's called the age of
before it was a sign of the god's benevolent
nature to allow
a man reap the outer reaches of age
and grace the earth with words
of wisdom...
but now now
now now but what now?
old age the crippler the half baked loath of bread
the cancer and dementia
at least in the past people died in the fervor of fever
in their youth what healthy and what
peaceful deaths
perhaps with painful toothache interludes
but more a life a gamble than all these current
predicaments of predictability and knowledge
of the gene pool variant and...

man's gift unto man: old age
yet without: Yeti!
                         what conundrum since love got busy
and in the way but then reality left a flower
of reminders and said:
but we do share an in vivo beginning
and now to think of it 20 years from now
i would have at least 3 co-dependents to think
of caring for split between
London and Kauai
and they'd be 85 and you'd be 75
and **** me that's like that
plus some energetic kid who just realised
she would be working the mundane cycle
of hunger fear shelter fear
love fear and all that's life an experience with
the selfishness of deities so troubled
by no sharing then sharing
then "us" oversharing with the overstep of techno-
more than bio- evolution...

now we can sort of forget Darwinism
in a way...
since biological evolution stagnated...
it is a stagnate: static even, observation...
it is not dynamic enough:
it creates rigid ontological cages of men
that used to have minds now have names
because there is only the name Freud but
no mind of Freud...
so... in terms of Darwinism
i find biology deceased...
there is only one form of evolution to concern
oneself with: namely that of technology...
Hephaestus...

          there is no looking at evolution already
established not being able to change
an increment more or less
like geology since
those are truly titanic logic branches of perception
geology, biology: almost indistinguishable
like chemistry states that there is organic
and inorganic chemistry
like there is iron in the blood
and calcium in the bones and calcium in the rocks
so... Darwinism is a nuisance argument
given the only evolution of note is
only technological...

AI like what was once the Google Search Engine
that's what chatGPT is to Googie...
i.e. that is tangible evolution
and there is no biology invoked like some ancient
rite of satisfying the wheat for harvest
or the fungus monkey generator of
deviating experiences of life
the day the planet decided to expand beyond
horizons of azures...

like the insinuation isn't there that the earth
be personified and having had spoken
said: save me O savior gasoline and Guggenheim
architect
and Mondriaan!
again: how were
the wars of the Hoecks and the Cabbeljaws
actually settled
and what ancient arguments are we even having
to preserve this day intact

i will not even ask.