Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.

could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

A tortoise ripe with lime stone wrinkles
Shakes off the final layers of that sediment
Crystal that had calcified itself to the classic side
Of the shelf.
Like a filthy barnacle that clings to the inside
Of my skull
& whispers phrases of Walden to the black one
Of my mind.
He threw that spider silk
& iron twine around a lion's
Spine as a sign of respect:
Then he yanked as a means to dissect
When it was least expected.

I was the envy & death smudged black
The ***** duffle bags under a skeletons
Hollow hole.
I hate you with every fiber.

“The most important scientific revolutions all include, as their only common feature, the dethronement of human arrogance from one pedestal after another of previous convictions about our centrality in the cosmos.”*
Stephen Jay Gould

Give me
vacuum tube torus Lorentz-Klein interference receptors
dual noble-gas maser integration processors
at least one
prosthetic Gaussian carbon-coated ribosomal Tesla coil
an anthropomorphic hierarchical temporal meme-pseudopod
some
support vector k-nearest neighbor algorithms
reverse engineered quantum optic die-cast silica motherboards
self-assembling three dimensional electro-active protein polymers
maybe even
a superconducting spectral alkali resonance analyzer
paired with
harmonizing piezoelectric kinematic thermal modules
dipped in
subzero Kurzweil-circuit nanite neurotransmitters
and voila!
God.

Hashtag:weirddreams
In a dream I looked upon a world like this;
The future was here. It was today. It was now and
the wings on birds had malted, and
the atmosphere was spent.
Spent, because currency had proven
worthless.  
Hashtag:firstworldprobs
(piles
on top of
piles of    washingtonsjeffersonsandgrants    now sat        
                                    stagnant,    Hash­tag:getmoney            
devalued over time by the American glutton who had paved our roads with imported plastic,
cheap polymers to build empires quickly, since we were so young with so little history so little culture and so little ritual. Hashtag:omgsoboring.
We played catch-up
by simply investing very little effort,
and paying very little respect,

With expectations of getting really *******
Big).  Hashtag:sorrynotsorry
Which didn’t end up working. Hashtag:whoops

And so then we just burned up all that money, quite literally, ignited by the last few drops of oil we could manage to squeeze from Earth’s stones.
And its smoke, smelling faintly of our forefathers’ intentions, turned the turbines for our televisions and deep fryers while we sat and felt ourselves getting smaller and smaller.

Then I woke up, and realized it was only a dream.  

Hashtag:

Cheap toxic plastic in friendly packaging;
bending under heat,
breaking under pressure.
What pseudo-efficiency.

Take out the silver!
Savor the feast, and
abolish interruptions.

Or stick with hollow forks.
Perfect polymers that crack
under the weight of your gluttony.

Your life– a feast, punctuated by
the casual dismissal of those
disposable *****.

love has turned to frustration
and little things have begun to collect
like plastic floating in the whirl-pooling currents of the ocean

a small raft built to protect myself
to stay afloat
after treading, nearly drowning in the swirling masses
keeping my nose to the air
to breathe our oxygen

searching for ways to recycle a synthetic past into raw, earthy tones
dreaming of ways to live gently
and soothe a conscience full of unknown, hidden foes

one moments glance at the jungle of hardened polymers shining in the crusted sunlight -
i begin to realize they are not garbage, but gold

to be re-shapeable, to be reusable; is this not better than gold?
to keep firm and true to ones self, while being agile and accommodating, is this not worth much more?

to have a 75 year half-life;
slow, deteriorating, dissolving decomposition.

or to be re-formed. replenished.

you can recycle the past.

Explain why fluorine and chlorine
are in the same group of the periodic table.

He blunders. There’s a question
on polymers soon
so he knows he’s *******.

An afternoon in June
spent regurgitating answers

rehearsed a hundred times
in overcast classrooms.

He knows there’s a matter
of days before his mates
will go their separate ways.

Names he’s spoken for years
will decay over time,
cemented over by people

he hasn’t yet met.
Two, seven, two, eight, seven.
Seven electrons in their outer shell.

He’s surprised he knows,
the answer chiming
in his head like a peal of bells.

you sometimes just wake up, **** into an empty plastic
bottle (because you're too lazy to leave the room and
go to the toilet), open up an autobiography of
West Berlin ****** ****** addicts, compare
the beautiful account with the macabre works of
Burroughs and feel this lazy need to ride the groovy train of
empathy - then you go downstairs and drink
two glasses of water to ease the throat, smoke three cigarettes
for breakfast, flick on the television as background noise akin to
the ambience snoring of a refrigerator and grind your eyes
on a Sunday newspaper... which is something of a novelty,
given the headlines, it's the perfect horror novel,
even though i know that it's not a novel (yes, a misnomer) -
but like that matters - newspapers are scarier than any
Stephen King novel - so you summarise the day ahead:
that Frenchman was right, hell is other  people...
and by people i mean the people you have no childhood memory
with, or of,
                  when it just goes back into
the basics of social tact, manicured conversations,
and all manner of woo ha...
                                                 the blatant disrespect of
literature: celebrity's dogs getting published -
how can you take a society like that seriously?
so you bask in the remaining whiskey -
                              wondering:
   why is everything so suddenly auburn,
or so amber? and why is most of the amber
the stuff of legends from the Baltic - and why is half
of Europe forgotten, marginalised into
living out a dodo fate?
                  ἤλεκτρον (ēlektron):
never quiet the order of things, a car - škoda -
how the English pronunciation avoids the law:
said: shkoda - not skoda.
                                 as above, a prolonged eta -
with a caron, or runic kaunan -
eta-macron                                       reversed back
into Greek: eta-caron                 thesaurus rex argues
synonym-variation, suggesting Bach was never
the first in polyphony - as such - at this moment?
when writing turns into painting -
             etymological genealogy of amber?
'anbar                     'aah           like a macron -
            Arabic, from middle Persian
ambar -                                          hence the vowel
dancing and provisions in Hebrew to
hide                              e, i, o, u                            but
keeping two aesthetics of alpha      , i.e. aleph
             and ayin                          -
mistook as silent, yet blatantly obvious, i.e. written -
          then the variation of aleφ and cheese: aleθ -
so much beauty, yet so much pain -
and the everyday rigidity of language when buying
potatoes -
                    and all manner of haggling.
so back to the etymological genealogy -
                 via middle Latin ambar          and
middle French ambre                            M. Hombre -
                  so when the Latin world was conquered
and the grapheme æ was cut open and separated
as with Milton's Satan - the fruit bore ash -
                                          the French harked the R,
the Russians said Я                        and the English
softened the trill                  Ra Ra                 Ra Ra -
it was almost like singing opera -
but the history teacher spoke Latin in Catholic
school inviting the trill back - the French used to trill,
instead they preferred harking the phlegm back -
Kabbalah - or the exclusive anatomy of the mouth -
podniebienie-er - i.e. R said with the tongue
touching the palate for the momentum of the sound -
as too the vector of grammar changed:
easiest example? left to right, not right to left -
Copernican dispute over the sunrise and the west:
e.g. King of Denmark, rather than Rex Dania,
no, that's wrong, translating compounds sometimes
never does prove correct when crafting
carbohydrate polymers of bundled blah -
                              wise man - but the reverse
man wise            i.e.                  **** sapiens -
thus the acronym i.e. became a conjunction
                           like e.g. an             and-type-of-word.

Dispose of them properly!
It might get caught
On the neck of some poor soul.

They are recyclable!
I prefer ones soft,
The ones polymers are made of.

Wear them loosely!
They aren't good for skin,
Besides these masks get sweaty.

There are few impossibilities, one of those being the ability to follow science. Pure science is too far ahead to be followed.
That which is left in the resulting wake of exploration isn't scientific. Science isn't claims made by News Science and marketers for trillion $ industries. Science isn't a scientific research paper funded by The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation or The Rockefeller Foundation: That's simply business as usual, and it's been like that for centuries.

“Follow the science” is this era's “Sol orbits Earth”. Can you do science or do you merely script and parrot slogans and opinions. Are you capable of writing your own research paper or do you merely read the research papers of others.

Science on its own teaches nothing, and nothingness; experience teaches.

A scientist isn't a labcoat, beakers, and sponsorships. I've had some of the most adept scientific mentors on the planet come to unanimous consensus that I'm too idealistic for this world. I was ******* from the get-go lol. There isn't a universal constant and universal law that I can't conceptualize and understand inside-out, and I now know less for certain than I did when I was 5 years old. But, every second person claims to be scientific. *******.

Knowing how macromolecules chain into larger polymer chains, and how those polymers chain together to cause a tangible “object”, so to speak, is being an eternal Padawan Apprentice following a creek bed in the bedrock of an echochamber canyon that reverberates to the choir. Knowing how the tests, medicine, drugs, cosmetics, foods, and most everything else that people absorb and use, function and interact, and being careful to snot mistake co-relation for direct-strength causality, is a very alienating existence in society. Most everyone supposedly knows most everything: It has the atmosphere of a morgue and slaughterhouse merged into a box for this Brave New World.

Cattle life is but a blue screen dream to merrily row through to the hypnotic beat of North America's nightmarishly silent screams.

Apex power and hyper-philanthropists
could've been transparent, dropped the
Technocratic Wizard of Oz horseshit act,
simply asked for Martyrs who “follow the science” to step forward in the name of science, progress, and duty to free society and the good of the whole,

and most of the denatured cowards,
heartless tin soldiers, and dumbed-down scarecrow double agents for Empire,
would've come forward in lock-step, lined up along the fool's gold brick road to receive
the shots of Kool-AIDS in a sense of duty, piety, virtuosity, and self-righteousness,

regardless.

Could've been transparent, explained that
the Fiat economy crashed, that it's being held
up with strings as illusory slop for the trough, that The Fourth Industrial Revolution is being ushered in, and 75% of the global population doesn't have Golden Tickets to The Great Show.

I've always promoted and advocated for medical ethics and proper informed consent.

Having to sustain,
my breathing, a hellish landscape,
where all of them dwell
no further than surfaces...

Industry, enterprises,
companies, businesses,
what a diplomatic way
to keep us slave...

Everybody notices,
Nobody cares,
as long as their dishes are full,
of the polymers they emulate food with...

Wealth and democracy are a placebo,
I'm fed up with it, not taking it anymore,
never took it again, from a while now...

My hopes lie far away,
where none of them can notice,
that I'm higher on thoughts,
higher than them, no envy anymore.

do you think you are free?
dis-attach, learn to fight and go away,
where no man can find you...

diffeomorphic metal between bubble wrap and foil, acrylic olfaction in plastic ignitions, flat-iron physics in lice screams, integument with Guillain-Barré in extra steps; the annealed strands : immunity :: the follicles : nervous remains. cephalic solar panels and thermostat polymers protect against the misses and false alarms of signal recovery. there is time to think before the eggs hatch.

it dawns on me that the
rug of spacetime is being
blanketed in black paint
as distant stars blink finally

and only with myth under fingernails
can i pick it clean

one more solvent to dissolve
the polymers; my nerves
teasing paralysis so coyly
i thought i was insoluble

yet i find myself drinking,
or moreso drowning in,
this curious concoction:
so volatile but sweet

to breathe is unnecessary,
this form is but an interim,
for my place in rock and earth
was measured in years

this has reduced me to seconds:
a hot flash reaction
i'd rather die in love and alcohol
than float on waves of apathy

Planet earth (the Mother of all)
breathed a collective
and palpable sigh of relief,
and I too deeply exhaled,
a foregone conclusion staved off
today July 21st, 2024,
whereat the audacious,
contumacious, discracious,
hellacious, marlacious, mendacious,
predacious, pugnacious,

salacious, ungracious,
voracious elephant
furiously stomping around the room
seems less imminent
to trample out the vintage,
where the grapes of wrath stored
hence wine not express relief
thee inevitable defiant ego-freezer
chances of bagging the election
considerably diminished

in the mind of yours truly,
cuz let's be honest,
the current commander in chief
odds of winning before he withdrew
would never have received
sizeable percentage of electoral votes
a snowball's chance in hell,
though I rue advocating quitting,
(especially as applies to yours truly - me)
withdrawing from less than half hearted labor,

that trace amount of ambition
witnessed courtesy exerting feeble effort
particularly toward various and sundry
countless vocational pursuits
when I happened
to be a perpetual student
matriculating at many
colleges/universities,
but graduating from none
except the school of hard knocks.

Vaingloriousness absent in my vocabulary,
cuz during formative years of mein kampf
mental, physical and spiritual development
I exhibited passivity involving
academic, interpersonal and athletic pursuits
and wonder where in the webbed, wide world
the days of my life
the existence of a very reformed
wandering Jew slung this earthling  
around the black (hole)
threescore and six orbitz  
since January thirteenth
two thousand and twenty four.

Longevity and mortality hopefully witness
remaining lifetime of mine
equaling an additional thirty three
totally tubular birthdays
roaming thru stary sky since mcmlix
after the common era
each day being alive celebrated
(like the jumping frog of Calaveras County)
a schizophrenic doubting thomas
at puberty his psyche markedly twain,
never put figurative nose to the grindstone

thus he feels undeserving
of pomp and circumstance,
when milestones barely accomplished
with minimal expenditure
of blood, sweat and tears
bajillion years before the human league
prolifically predominated planet,
when primordial earth, wind, and fire  
shape shifting like a huge foghat,
whereby fluke of circumstances
triggered accretion of microbial organisms

eventually bridging cosmic infrastructure
vaguely analogous to symbiotic contra dance
differentiation of matter manifested
under a sheltering sky
begat seeds of life and white lily
ushering over milleniums
distinct plant and animal species
among the latter – beetle browed,
foo fighting, bountiful ink spots
soaking up osmotically
one after another lovin' spoonful

within small medium at large ink spots
organic molecules (monomers)
and complex organic molecules (polymers)
formed from inorganic materials
in the primitive atmosphere
fast forward eons later when clumped entities
deployed diploid doped baby boomer generation
among one feisty young married couple
succumbed to primal reproductive urge
begetting das scribe of these words
sometime around early/mid April
nineteen hundred and fifty eight.

From the get go
(as the product of a Geico caveman)  
I exhibited nervous disposition
and if born today
would probably be hashtagged
as Asperger, cuz early development
foretold exceptionally docile behavior
withdrawn into nonsocial realm
quite evident as I attended grade school
slinking away from the madding crowd.

[ Mass Noun ]

He pays cash for his plastic,
and with plastic for his cash.

But he is conscious of waste,
because his condoms are of
organic polymers,

Elastic, with an expansion
joint and a shock absorber,

Bespoke, moulded to his
shape, whilst soft.

He's a P.V.C. a Paddy and
Very Catholic,

But he confesses that he has
no problem with Synthetic's,

Yet, his girlfriend, who has
a double name, Polly Esther

Is allergic to nylons so she uses
fish nets, at Christmas, for Santa!

After descent of eventide
luminescence of freshly fallen snow
still illuminates the terrestrial firma bright
even upon the onset of dusk,
when dark shadows
betoken the edge of night
analogously herald outer limits
invoking intimations of the twilight zone,
which visibility amplified
with appearance of full moon
accentuating brilliant blinding white
across the bucolic expanse.

No matter familiarization
with precipitation falling to Earth
as ice crystallization,
nevertheless a child like mirth
bubbles up inside of me,
the shear beauty worth
more than words can spell.

These transitional bifocals I wear
become naturally tinted
(upon exposure to radiance)
courtesy law of reflection
which states that, on reflection
from a smooth surface,
the angle of the reflected ray
equals the angle of the incident ray
essentially darkening material
comprising lenses for glasses,
which constituent chemicals for lenses
come in four types of plastic:
polyethylene, Trivex, polycarbonate,
high-index polymers, and glass.

After looking away
from brilliantly shimmering raiment
displaying full regalia donned
courtesy the nearest solar body,
one might see dark spots or patches
within field of vision,
which ocular entities called afterimages.

Afterimages happen because
the cells in your eyes that help you see,
called photoreceptor cells,
get tired from the bright light.

There are two types of these cells: cones and rods.

Though myopic, I still marvel
and feel blessed at ability
to experience capability,
no matter nearsightedness
insync with color vision deficiency (CVD)
diminishes fullest breadth and scope
to see with perfect
(meaning 20/20) vision
ever since a wee lad
way back in second grade
nearsightedness became quite evident

and difficult to ignore
forsooth in while deep in the womb
visionary genesis made
with slight inability
unable to distinguish
one or more chromatic colors
also in the chromosomal store
and so-called “floaters”
like my own private kaleidoscope
played tag across field of view

in the process concentration wore
out ability to attune other senses
to lend even a shade
now as an older fellow,
who dons bifocals with pride
eligible by optometrist/ophthalmologist
to undergo laser surgery
to shine on (me) lens
and render spectacles superfluous
as necessary guide
once anonymous philanthropist pens

adequate check for costly procedure,
whereby ocular weakness to hide,
whence ability to see keen as a hawk
with zoom empowered by tens
meanwhile this wayward fellow
will pilgrimage to the oracle of Delphi
hoping the priestess can deliver
like some divine
miracle worker for near blind
and if prayer
(to be free of glasses answered)

will become prophet
(written on subway walls) well nigh
and wordsmith will no longer
make spectacle of himself,
additionally no longer at the mercy
per groping in the dark
for misplaced eyewear to find
able to discern celestial objects
far away in the sky
which cosmic phenomena
t’will hypnotize this inquisitive mind.