It starts so soon, because the internet’s fucked

in the head sometimes, and as atrophy is death,

life is philosophy, churning water memories

boiling a steam line to the secrets

of the universe, pilot a model boat

home by nightfall, chugging soft quick

bubble pounding, an artistic metaphor

to be sure, but in myriad ways less

then meaningful, it’s pretty not import.

 

If consideration replaces boredom in my heart

I will be more, or less depending

on the breaks of the waves, fortune is a fire

tornado, leafing away buildings

to skeletal dissonance, so what’s the use

of reason at heart, justification turmoil is political

gamesmanship, my mind lies on

my tongue, introducing indistinguishable

ideals and setting them to a death duel.

 

The world is war, whether it outs

ever or not, for every pinprick is

a disaster waiting, coming in threes

fours and fives, or just never-ending,

so if life is pain what is the point of poetry?

Poetry is above points, obviously, but

there’s an intriguing question behind

the question, what is the point

of questioners, without a god above.

 

Who are they to listen to us?

My questions are not for loan

or lease, and less are they mine

at all in the first place, every question

is birth stone bestowed, left to be

discovered someday, smashed open

and scattered in dust, sprinkling onto

words, so all must be related, somehow.