Dystopian Fever Dream

It's lonely, a technician in psychospace                                                                                 
a cursed world, an immortal cancerscape
residual runoff of human desire, the interface
with incessant demons and no hope of escape.

The lumpen digitariat, creating the villages
necessary for the village idiots, Radio Rental.
Sympathy for the monks, drunks and cabbages,
they say, "Authoritarian deliberation is coinky-dental."

The Mean World thrives on adrenaline poisoning.
Refuseniks, just another demographic of the dumb.
Honor dies where interest lies, darkening
what you see is all there is, all you'll become.

Love: Verb or Noun?

“Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.”

– Robert Frost, Two Tramps in Mud Time

“Love is a verb,” a cliché
truth overused, still rings true –
a burglar alarm announcing thieves
in a grocery store after the riot.

A half truth, a single face
when there are two, verb and noun.
Caring for a child with fever
is love, complete and complex.

A child tied to a chance beginning,
a class, church, online, a line.
Conceived in an empty condom box.
Born to grasp, hearts and breasts.

The sick child of this moment,
descended, a baby’s “Dada,”
a mother’s passion in a wheel of:
mothers, fathers and newborn others.

Love is a verb? It may be, but –
it is a verb with history.
History, real and imagined
of princes who turn into toads.

Pedestals are for broken hearts,
the ground is where things grow.
A sick child tended, becomes
fruit at another wedding party.

Sea salt, bee wing whispers,
worms in the soil of ancestors.
An old love begets new love
and brands it with its mark.

Who can see the mark of love?
Who can say, verb or noun?
And later, who can say it was
a thing, deed or fantasy?

Mutantis Mutandis

Electroculture overcoded 
A spiritual Alcatraz, thrown
in solitary, locked & loaded,
artificial dreams, a clone.

Read the unwritten text,
the rongorongo of the soul, 
Nostradamas of the next, 
turnkey tyranny in a bowl.

A guinea pig often forgets:
half sterile + half feral +
normal distribution mindsets +
harmless untruths == peril.

In the world, in the Abusement parks,
soulless sinceretrons of misogyny,
xenofeminist cyborgs & beauty patriarchs
together in a fuck rife with ignomity.

Anhedonia, sealed in a shrine,
wokescienti, schizo-critical,
pleasure threshold, decline
scrolling is apocalyptical.

McMansions, corporate pablum
billionaires in armed lifeboats,
in the flotsam of crisis capitalism
those with guns get the votes.

In the grotesquerie of the Real,
agendas, exopolitic extra-terrestial
over stochistic chance, to feel
choose meaning, over being immaterial.

Everyone, themselves a carnival.
Suspend truth, believe as you will
no difference, fact abominable,
same: blue, red or any other pill.

Salad Messiah

(413 words)

Our rule: we do whatever the fuck we want,
a heavenly kakistocracy, the Host on High:
flâneur, stumblebums, mollycoddled half-humps
handing down a queasy quadroonerie of essentialism,
an Aleatory principle, WYSIATI. A carceral state
on this side of the multiverse, one eternity in eternities,
waving Ludwig Wittgenstein’s magical bracelet of meaning,
dropping spiritual gems cattywampus into the matrix.

Weltschmerz, Temple of Tears, a Gruen Transfer design,
shopping center with pews, an overwatch choir over the throg:
a Cucuy, a boojam, a 52 hertz whale, Pomgolians,
an American without an opinion, werewolves, in short:
an assembly of chancers in life’s lobby,
all carne por la machina, singing with drums
a solastalgi psalm of Schadenfreude, a beating:
kto, kogo, kto, kogo, kto, kogo, kto, kogo.
A pointless, stochastic cacophony, burning incense,
the smell of hobo feet, el zorrillo no huele a si mismo.

The ushers, Kunga Dhondup and Jára da Cimrman
the hardest men on the cobbled corridors,
enlightened Buddhas of subterranean impulses,
meshuge Sicario, shtarker, and enforcers.
Specialists in killing, kompromat & reinigungskrise
forging mind manacles, permanent Radio Rental,
physician/operators of Tausk’s Influence Machine,
projecting paranoias, diagnosing Mean World Syndrome,
a closed ideology echo chamber of glossolalia and/or
inconsistently applied crypto-Saxonist bafflegab.

Before the altar, the priest Charvaka, panjandrum,
a factual Laocoön of the money-based caste system,
a rectum-faced MC, barking, 40 and Ω decibels,
crafting modern bube meyseh, studied sciolism built on
the illusion of hindsight, authoritarian deliberation to rewrite
the Hottel memo as scripture using a Rube Goldberg device,
a kugelblitz in the Overton window, the fourfold vision:
(1) neltiliztli of ourselves, not selfies; (2) omotenashi;
(3) seykhl in facies hermeticae and demolishing Thomassons;
(4) chance is a roll of the disdyakis tricontahedron.

The Antikythera Mechanism points to the Age of Ophiuchus,
Orber’s light so bright, aphakia, focus on the fuzziness.
Forgotten arm of realization, a rossignol with delta v,
death’s rathskeller is open to all and needs no key,
The Pratfall Effect, is the sign on the door, situated
in the ghetto for grinds, the district of busyness
where life is cheap, but it ain’t ever easy.
But no one ever made it to beyond Kraken Mare,
using Lojban: magical, pure but also wrong.

Semden is the the akoisexual prostitute, a non-believer,
bête noire of the margins, with cynegetic tendencies.
Lojong, aware karada living the one-man rucksack revolution.
The long road to hektemorage: métro, boulot, dodo.
The only buona morte, kodokushi, redeemer of the age.
Auftragstaktik: enlightenment, then blasting off, higher.