Fakokta Dazibaos

Start with a basic principle:
yauh peng, yauh leng - in English,
inexpensive and beautiful. Empty,
alone, a blank canvas five inches 
across, bounded by ears, separate
yet susceptible, social mind virus. 

Catastrophe has already happened,
from one view. Another angle, sees
happiness, created whole-cloth out
of disposition and a clean heart.
Sense, nonsense and in between, a line 
can't be right, left and/or wrong.

Layers, subcultures of lost, brittle 
men coalesce into reply guys, wienie 
wagers, and boojeymean lodged in the 
Callipygian cheeks of society, coprolite, 
surplus to requirements, in places
normalized for deficits of wonder. 

Covering what stinks, habitual
evidence of a lunch, long past
Nature's Shitness Protection Program
revealing God in what she's not, 
and what she is may be just another
evaporated, dehydrated, Stone being.

An unmagicked, McJunk world, three ring 
shit show, exponential, terrible, 
uncapable of bearing the intimacy of
scrutiny. Changez vos amis, but there
can be no separate survival or
 adjusted destinies. Truth comes last. 

NYT Haikus

Not all are masterpieces, but there are some gems here.

TEOTWAWKI

living in the doom, catastrophe 
paranoia of the psychoentirety, 
a trash fire, landscape lighting 
florescent, sick room architectures 
broadcasting dead news to unwitting 
recipients, dream/nightmare remnants, 
black anxiegenic chemistries awaiting, 
reagents and catalysts, parlor 
epidemiologists and physicians, 
a confederacy of a billion clowns, 
narcissists, fascists and a mule 
turning paranoia into public policy 

mystics of the stream, waterflesh 
bubbling personal microculture, 
the best swims between the net, 
fishing, the pitiless puta, thrusts 
his smooth skinned erection towards 
the wild, the permaweird, memory-wired, 
on the float, uplifting imaginary vortex, 
against a loser's catalog: black jerseys, 
bum guns, and jack boots - stomping 
an exogenous shock, giving birth to a thin, 
grim newness, destined for the trash of civilizations 

The WYSIATI Prison

What you see is all there is,
a closed ideology fakelore, a mazeway garden,
fruiting failed perspectives and shared paranoias.
Quant illusions, analysis is paralysis.

Divert and subvert. Launch determines
orbit for every apex, when the monkey bells
the gorilla they call it jungle justice, a harmless
bruising, the shot before the anesthetized heart.

But, the kakistocracy provides: 24 hour water,
electric fusion fleshlights, a wankbank, weird
excretion dependent, generative of natural-adjacent,
CRISPR life, selected for a skidmarked sky.

An unspoken quale, smells like nothing else,
deep in the boojum and bafflegab, counterphobic,
insufficient evidence of normal on the weirdo safari.
Quis potest sapere audere?

Comment Chains

Man is born free but everywhere is in comment chains,
assembly-line production "memes" in social media-ready
baggies for your unnourishment, the whole world,
a sad maze of thinly disguised press releases.

The future is here and everything needs to be destroyed,
salt the field, plant your seed in the sucking wound of need,
harvest, pack in two lost matching suitcases, left circling,
forever on a carousel going nowhere being eaten by flies.