Art.Suvro.Ghosh

P2689 I brood constantly

I brood constantly. It's who I am. I have ruined a career out of it, and I still have doubts that the diarrhea in the supply chain isn't entirely my fault. I mean, I'm just an ordinary multicellular being going about my life, but no one lets me. There's a tremendous amount of time and money spent on the diorama we call our reality, when in fact most of it is just rental props—stuff that you can own and must pass on after a lifetime. It's amazing how attached we all get to the stage and the knickknacks on it, and how little we value, and strangely, I feel, the real things that matter, like time spent in this life, and not fritter it away in counting the stuff scattered on stage or waste it jostling and fighting for them.

I guess having a defective brain makes me prone to failing to appreciate the beauty in violence, blood, and gore. The money that can be made, they tell me, is a lot. Yes, certainly we must keep up with the tribal rituals and proud traditions, and who am I to say anything? A mere nobody to boot, and then less, and even less, and so on, until the end of the sentence, where no additional information waits for you. Especially when there's no dearth of gurus with bloated bellies and puffed-up chests attesting to one course or another on how to do this or that. And they add that they accept all major credit cards. Bingo, there you go; your life is set. Just one course, and you're on your way.

However, mine are just inconvenient bits of unhelpful language that don't warm the cockles of your heart. In this parasocial mix-up of people that mix in their imaginary living room, lodged in everyone's mind, I assume they serve food and beverages. At least we can distract ourselves with the sound of chewing the food we're putting in our mouth, thus avoiding the necessity of putting anything in or, goodness forbid, a conversation.

My friends have told me that what you write makes no sense and, in any case, that no one reads it anyway. I agree, and I have nothing to say to defend myself. What I write may indeed not make any sense, as often this is just stuff that flows straight out of my thumb. Thumbs, more accurately, as that's what I use to type on my smartphone, and I just have an itch, and once I'm finished, I feel I can relax a little bit.

P2688 Mask

I'm promoting another long comment no one will read to a post. Hopefully maximizing its chance. The topic was fake happiness. Heck, that's the reason I started the Omnibus Omnia on LinkedIn: to discuss topics like this. But no one is interested. Just some bots spewing trite clichés and vomit. People just want to click on the trifles and stay happy with the fiction that's being spun, and LinkedIn is happy as long as it has traffic. And that's why most people have this pit inside that's slowly rotting. People have turned everything into passive entertainment—television—and turned their thinking off. Thinking seems to be work, and the prevalent idea is that if you're not getting paid for it, you don't better do it. I disagree. Sure, you'll make money, but you won't be able to answer or think through life like that and we'll increasingly look like that mask I've sketched, a dystopian dystrophic version of ourselves.

Is not our reality a meticulously curated gallery of societal constructs, artificially erected edifices that shape and restrict the contours of our existence? Our thoughts, our dreams, and our fears—are they not constrained by these invisible fetters, these insidious norms that dictate the rhythm of our lives? Are we not ensnared in this complex web of perceptions, the veracity of which we seldom question, and in our quest to be happy, are we not offering fealty to these phantom realities? The answers are yes, and we are screwed.

This happiness is the crowned monarch of virtues, the heralded goal of life's hallowed path. Yet, what if the reality we're seeking to be happy with is but an illusion, a grand narrative spun from the loom of collective fictions? What if that is making us unhappy? The issue is that the fictions that we have created to get the world to work have trapped us because we've started believing in them. Most people don't know what reality is today, and to wake them up, it would take peeling an onion several layers deep, and no one's interested.

This trend of trying to force the appearance that everything is okay all of the time is more than an imposition; it's an incarceration. This modern-day prison is the reason why people lead a contrived, artificial existence. And in leading this life, some of them come unmoored from their real selves and self-worth, which feeds the feeling of being alienated in an increasingly individualistic society. As a species, we are not specially rigged for happiness; that circuit is driven by other survival imperatives.

We are that animal that defecates, fornicates, and fights and also fibs, and we should attempt to strip away the layers of fib, to shatter the mirrors of illusion, and to lay bare the naked essence of our species. Only then can we navigate the labyrinth of life without losing ourselves in its beguiling twists and turns. For it is one thing to be wearing a mask to the world and quite another to be wearing a mask inside, which is the reason for our angst.

P2687 Eink Reader

I do read books on a smartphone, but I don't own an Eink Reader. Well, I did; I had two. But some fiends stole it from me. They had initially posed as the sons of ministers in Assam. They usually do this in India to impress people, especially foreigners and NRIs who are not fluent or amnesiac about these nefarious enterprises. I was conned.

Anyway, long story short, I also got beaten pretty badly with hockey sticks, and a local taxi driver and his friends saved me from getting killed. In 2014, when Modi visited the US, I thought, like many who do now, that India had morphed into a place suitable for business. It has not. It's still the same corrupt shop it used to be, and you need to be a company as big as Amazon or Google or well versed in the Indian ecosystems to get anywhere or to absorb the shocks.

What works elsewhere doesn't work here, and the picture postcards are a lie. Indians are also very power-, race-, and wealth-centric; if you have a white partner, have a BMW, and have affiliations with real ministers, a lot of people will see merit in you, even if there's none. Indian businesses don't invest in startups; you have to come prepared with your own pool of cash, and if you run out of it, don't think it's going to be at all easy trying to raise money in India. All the grandstanding and pledges are brazen, untruthful statements; the government only wants the companies that have money to splurge to come to India so that a lot of that can get funneled into the dark alleys of corruption and nepotism.

You could become one of them. I was invited to cheat Americans, and funds were offered to me to start yet another clandestine operation, given my command of the language and my accent. When I refused I was lectured on the principles of business as they apply in India—an Indianized version of the Machiavellian end justifies the means. Kolkata has in fact become a center for fraud, and these centers are still doing brisk business thanks to the collusion with the powers that support them. I'd rather starve than be a conniving crook.

It's just a bad taste in my mouth when I see that I'm surrounded by people like this who think this is as viable a method of existence as any. And the kind of idiotic history that some of them have been fed, where anyone with white skin is a colonial villain and therefore stealing his or her retirement funds and credit cards can be morally justified, makes me throw up. What kind of distorted worldview people have. This is the reverse side of racism that people don't talk about.

P2686 Sabotage

While it might surprise you, the contrast in body mass index is rife and well in the city of joy, where it's not uncommon to find podgy women with groceries and a USB fan astride a hand-pulled rickshaw. The BMI does average out between her and the puller, a gaunt, almost skeletal apparition, but any suggestions of a wealth gap cannot be ascertained when such trips usually end with the rider refusing to pay or in high-pitched haggling for a few rupees. The lady then galumphs into her palace and continues to berate another mongrel of similar hardscrabble denomination, the house servant, for not being able to read her mind.

The coils of human feces and the rudimentary sun are placeholders for the joy in the city. The artifacts of globalization and overeating are indigestion, that and a lack of public toilets, bad city planning, prarie dogging, and you get the picture, how to show, not tell, movement. The city is remarkably overjoyed with these and other types of protests that want to show you something isn't quite right, while the police and the enforcement are trying to tell, and allay all concern as mere childish annoyance. More coils. Smelly ones.

The sun does what it does best: be sunny. But you can't tell; there's a brown haze of particulate human follies hanging over the city that, from a landing aircraft, signals I'm home. Feces floating towards god, or dust, or pollution. And since most of the energy of the state goes into accruing wealth for fourteen generations of beneficiaries, you can't blame them for negligence. At the national level, the leaders do it for their tycoon friends; at the state level, the beneficiaries are state level in their nefariousness, at least a promoter, a serial criminal of some sort, a psychopath of political repute, but certainly not the ordinary citizens. Those fools are use and throw, for votes. And you get them indoctrinated in a political party, and they fight like they're getting a cut of the loot, and the leaders laugh.

They don't. They get promises. Zillions of promises Promises to last a lifetime, at least the term, and then rephrase and repackage them, presto, the fools don't even notice. You dole out the same cheap, trite candies and more of those worn-out promises, but in shiny new covers, say, under a different party name, and they are back again with their tongues lolling out, like obedient dogs. You kill and maim a couple of thousand, and as long as there's no camera, it's as if it never happened, dissents or criticisms don't survive police plus goons. You buy the rest; most have shit their spines in their poop anyway. And that's how things work in a democracy. Easy-peasy.

And with AI, a surveillance state mixed with state-of-the-art skullduggery will make it impossible for an incumbent to ever need to vacate the chair, no matter what. All kinds of Machiavellian schemes can be hatched to get people to rethink before they think; democracy won't survive; just as a namesake, but as an oxymoron.

P2683 I do look like an evil skull

I'm interrupted most of the time by the constant chatter of a self-recriminating critic. That's a crusty old man lodged in my head, and unless I'm really motivated, happy, or into something, I get easily sidetracked. I watched two movies, Nobody and Lucy, on my friend's Netflix.

I haven't been to a movie theater since 2014, and these are the first two movies in a long time that could hold me in uninterrupted thrall. When I'm off my meds, it's like that Lucy girl. It's like I have to keep myself drugged to keep me at a level where I don't fly off. My brain isn't normal; it's a fuming pot of all sorts of blurry juxtapositions of curvaceous ideas that often won't make sense to people who are sane. I can't pretend to know how other brains are, but it's sort of like the brain they depict in movies, where you're manic but not stark raving mad and without the graphics.

And recently, it's been this gnawing cavity pain that waxes and wanes and sometimes throbs with my pulse. I went to the dentist, and he gave me a laundry list of expensive procedures that I could not afford. I ordered some zinc oxide, and I'll try to get that filled myself. The thing with my poverty is that I don't "talk" poor, and if I claim I can't afford one expensive dental treatment, he proceeds to show me something more expensive.

And if your arrangement of canines, premolars, and molars is a feature exhibit that is fit to be on the cover of an archeology magazine, you're in India, in pain, extremely hard up, and you don't know what pain medicine to get: Temporary relief can be found in ketorol DT. It's an NSAID like ibuprofen except stronger, and if the pain doesn't go away, you might be looking at an infection in addition to inflammation. Double the trouble, but unless you have been profligate on antibiotics, an antibiotic regimen would help.

My dental x-ray shows I do look like an evil skull inside. I'm rotten, and something's rotting the bones, and it comes out in the x-ray. I'll be an evil poltergeist when I'm dead. The people who've engineered a slippery and steeper hypotenuse in the past or who intend to keep fondling my aspirational balls in the future better take a look at that skull and think twice. If I ain't a good candidate for an afterlife with a spine-chilling end, I can't imagine who is.

P2682

P2681 A nobody

Sometimes I feel like I might run out of words. I've already run out of many things, and I'm destined to peter out someday when the claptrap of the word-spool retires, frustrated with the reception. It's a crowded world, a world full of happenstance and probabilities that make jostling and sweating the only reward for the large majority of people.

It's strictly Darwinian and Malthusian; I realized that more in India, where a reasonable way to explain it would be to say that when someone's born, another falls off in the ocean. It's crowded. And the opportunity to work with the existing resources is often deceptively bureaucratic or nonexistent. The whole economy runs on the premise that if you make a rupee from a billion people, you have a billion rupees, but someone has to keep the equations balanced and keep these people at a point where they are in a position to spend that rupee, not if they are fighting adversities that are hidden away by the media, which never has the time to cover any real news. The advertisements of the shining faces of India that are portrayed outside are just masquerading an image that India never was, behind which the government and it's beneficiary businesses siphon tax payer money in the name of public projects to Swiss accounts. It's magic, except this level of collusion is well known and considered a well deserved dowry given to a politician.

The real India doesn't live in villages, cities, etcetera. The real India lives in the myths that obfuscate the reality of what is real and what is not. What we need is to get out of all this culture-centric baggage, rediscover ourselves, and secure a place in the world. This caste system, these Hindu-Muslim-Christian religious barricades, have to go; if there has to be any fiction that's important, that's the country, period. Let all the old man on the cloud fairytale rest in peace where it deserves, in our libraries and our shared cultures.

The corruption that continues to erode India is perhaps the only legacy that we seem to be passing on with great efficiency, with morally bankrupt people at the helm, goons festooned with accolades, and a generally well-nourished spectrum of propaganda that has awarded the Indian media the status of a jester. The self-congratulatory style of saying whatever you want to say while keeping your head buried in the sand works well and gets lots of sponsorship, at least.

I don't know why I bother to write these laments. Nobody cares. But somehow something compels me to write, just in case there's a future leader or thinker who might get inspired. Even a nobody has the right to dream good things for the place he calls home, no matter if that place is hostile to him, or doesn't want him. I was born here, and that's something that's not going to change, nor are the impressions of my childhood years that has been formative in creating this neural network I call me.

P2680 Hand-pulled rickshaw

P2679 mythological ram

Like mythological ram, crossbow in arm,

I aim and maim the evil I see.

Every morning these big arse flies,

That now I hold in my truthful glee.

Disgusting but delicious methinks,

If fried with leftover puja ghee.

There will be need for chants,

To send its soul to the land of the free.

Yes mainly for research, they have a grant,

The Americans are crazy about it.

I'm worried about how they'll react,

If the fly spirit tells on me in a fit.

My tea is getting cold, I'm getting old,

Where is the old kingdom that I had.

After retirement I talk to myself,

And the general consensus is, I'm mad.

I may bite, but not in spite,

In playful mirth and cheer.

They whisper he's mad, it's sad,

Thus in fear people don't come near.

Thus said a chap, there's a gap,

In the thinking and doing of men.

So I go, where the mountains have snow,

Sit and meditate often.

This my world a fancy whirl,

Of confusing thoughts a mess.

When I'm gone, the fabric torn,

Then they'll see what's less.

P2678 Machiavellian Malanjan

In the carefree city of Kolkata, near the southern boondocks, I stumbled upon a rare botanical find. Life usually brims with surface phenomena that keeps folks on their toes, but this evening was different. First there was a cable fault, a massive power cut. And then this.

With the loadshedding a thick veil of shadows was cast over the city, and I found myself lost in the narrow streets, navigating entirely by the flickering light of hurricane lamps. It was in this sort of moment of semi-darkness that I came upon the Machiavellian Malanjan. I chanced upon a secluded, loony, phosphorescent corner where this essence of deception and intrigue thrived. It was a peculiar hirsute plant that stood tall, its lightly lit tendrils weaving an intricate tapestry against the backdrop like the hairs of a ghost. Three faces emerged, each whispering a tale in my mind.

At the very top, bathed in the ambient glow, was a face of unparalleled beauty—a captivating smile, that could entice the most guarded soul, a magical aura that exuded charm and allure, like the disarming duplicitous facade worn by those in positions of power. Its sparkling eyes concealed an abyss of deceit, enticing unsuspecting passersby closer and promising them a better life. This enchantress was a reflection of the corrupt politicians and rapacious business class; their smiles were as sweet as the city's beloved sweets, masking the venom that lay within. It spoke of backroom deals and unfulfilled promises, spinning a web of lies that ensnared the unsuspecting ordinary man, leaving them spellbound by empty rhetoric and false hopes.

Curiosity consumed me, and as I looked downward, I saw the second face of the Machiavellian Malanjan. Its hideous side, illuminated by the nervous glow of lamps, revealed teeth that mirrored the sharpness of a predator's fangs. This lower face, nestled within the shrubbery, held the essence of Kolkata's clandestine underbelly—a realm where corruption, deceit, and self-serving agendas thrived—the corrupt police officers, the conniving bureaucrats, the manipulative middlemen and exploitative officers. Its serpentine tongue slithered with the venomous whispers of bribery, extortion, and exploitation.

Yet it was the third face that sent a shiver through my spine. Positioned at the very bottom of the Machiavellian Malanjan, the face of religious fanaticism. Surrounded by thorny bracts mirroring Kolkata's crumbling infrastructure, this visage unveiled the rot within the city's social fabric—a society where prejudice and dogma overshadowed unity and compassion. Its wicked teeth bled with intolerance, while its slithering tongue dripped with venomous sermons, sowing discord.

Not merely a plant I saw, but a living embodiment of the city's trichotomy—a reflection of the human depravities that pervade its streets, beyond the smiles and promises, the intricate dance of deception that is this city. I fled. I ran as fast as I could in the darkness.

P2677 My throat is dry

My throat is dry, I can't think why,

Nothing makes any sense anymore.

The desiccated land, jaundiced sand,

Mouth full of sores like never before.

The sun is hot, that's its job,

More than we can take.

The pond now a puddle,

Cloud seems an idea that's fake.

This is earth 3000 AD and it's dead,

Humans are critters like me.

Leftovers of the ancient ruins,

The cracks house us for free.

If you're reading this in the past,

You still have time to stop this.

Think what you're doing,

Would you call this future bliss?

P2676 This cup of tea

This cup of tea, shall set me free,

From darjeeling they say they pluck.

I doubt every word they say, nay,

I see the ceylon sticker is stuck.

Can't really trust, trust is bust,

Most people are just pests.

I do pest control, take over their soul,

Just ask them to write a few tests.

Calculus you have to know,

Trigonometry can save you too.

Higher algebra often a savior,

Otherwise you die coiled in glue.

Ramanujam there was a man,

Like a giant he roams the sky.

I just had a chat with him yesterday,

He said he's disgusted with human lie.

P2675 I'm freezing my rear

I'm freezing my rear, ice I fear,

Soon I'll drown I'm pretty sure.

Trippy this trip I have my payment slip,

Chances of refund seem to be poor.

In rain and ice, twice the insurance price,

For rescue they charge me more.

Now look at me, not even a tree,

Two young to die at eight and two score.

The ship was mighty big, they served a fiesty pig,

The food was great and gourmet good.

Jolly well I, cannot like this simply die,

I'm starving for hot sizzling food.

May be I will freeze in a fickle flash,

Not a long drawn marital pain.

And thus in going I shall prove,

Man's silly life just plain rotten vain.

You never know when, you're shipwrecked,

And then, the foothold slippery at best.

Look around you now, find somehow,

A lifeboat that sails in times of test.

Man is a mere animal, there it ends,

Everything is a spiders fancy web.

Once you know, you can surely grow,

Depend only on the cycles of Kreb.

P2674 This they say

This they say, whoever be they may,

The crux of the matter sucks.

The world is mute, and that's not cute,

Tragedies come loaded in trucks.

Look around you, the selfish look,

Yes, you and your chosen safe.

Is that all, if it were others to make a call,

And it was you instead very unsafe?

The species we are lives on trust,

Enabled by group think and tales.

The tales have now got screwy,

We're chasing our own tails.

Wake up stoic, there's no magic,

It's all really hard as rock you know.

Convenience is really inconvenient,

Time not an inexorable flow.

We don't even have free will,

All from a puddle of roiled choice.

Whatever we do isn't destiny,

But a twisted nature-nurture voice.

Under our skin, dimensions within,

Things aren't really as they seem.

Fact may be weirder sometimes,

As if deep-fried in a dream.

P2763 Not hollow the hype

Not hollow the hype, fed in the pipe,

The AI of tomorrow is already here.

Going from narrow to wide,

The "how" however not clear.

But it's coming alive, it's a hive,

As many copies as you can make.

Doomer I'm not, scream while still hot,

Some sense for goodness sake.

In my bed the wheels in my head,

That spins the spinners of fib.

I see the misapplied sciences,

I'm glum and the people are glib.

But I want to speak out,

Want to be loud and very clear.

You can't fool around with this AI,

If you hold any of your lives dear.

This isn't a dumb bomb,

That waits for you in a box.

It has volition and can decide,

What remains of you are only socks.

Lured in then left insecured,

The AI bull in a china shop.

Delicate and fragile this civilization,

One shake of the bull and it'll stop.

Rushing like mad, I think it's sad,

Profits over people yet again.

When will we learn, tell me WHEN,

Homo hemlock stops being vain?

Hear, now then, my, this pen,

With these words I declare.

Too many tools for too many fools,

This may become yet another snare.

Genie is out, clotted power like clout,

It's still not too late to think.

Get the "right" people at the helm,

Otherwise, the rot will start to stink.

Not the holy hocus pocus, or circus,

Nor any fictional character here.

This may be it, the lid on us fit,

The joke on us may be very near.

This you see, my morning cup of tea,

A thought I wanted to share.

I'm just a puny bengali worm,

I'm sure no one would listen or care.

P2737

P2736 I say fuck the fucks

I say fuck the fucks, eat the ducks,

The chickens are already gore.

Fuck you all, for all you've not done,

The snake gets to even out the score.

And then my ghost wearing that boot,

I'll come with a swagger in style.

Then I'll press those nails you see,

Right on your face with a smile.

Fuck you all, assholes and bitches,

I hope you die a bloody stew.

Let my spirit haunt your bastards alive,

And make sure that they die too.

No one's off the hook, until the guilty cook,

In hot oil with garam masala mix.

I'll spare no end, call my ghost friends,

For a night of gourmet dishes six.

The envious kin, glowing green their skin,

Now on a plate with cabbage roll.

They look serene and placid,

In the past they've fucked my asshole.

The eye-balls gouged out, sans clout,

Their balls served separately on a tray.

As a spirit I enjoy fermentation,

My blood collection will be on display.

Every single fuck and what they did to me,

Their crime in sordid detail read.

Then the feast will start, bless my heart,

I'm glad I am finally fucking dead

P2762

P2761 So holy my ball

So holy my ball, amount of seed so small,

What on planet plastic is wrong.

I could be just sad, but I'm also mad,

Today I'll drink fermented pee extra strong.

In the holy temple of the gods, the nitwit sods,

Crowd the air and prayers out of me.

They fart and shit even on god's goodly tit,

I only now go their for the food that's free.

Holy halcyon, is another bullshit con,

Just a way to steal underwear without you knowing.

That's why I shit in my pants,

To discourage these nincompoops from stealing.

P2760

P2759 Kim is dim

Kim is dim, scam his schemes,

His balls heavy with dark desire.

Wants to fuck the rock, sucks putin's cock,

Habanero stuffed in his ass to fire his ire.

The Americans not afraid, they've said,

The south is enjoying a windfall.

Kim wants revenge, wants a monster strange,

Wants to give godzilla a booty call.

With AI and nukes, some lucky flukes,

Some friends he later can stab.

He plans to take over, one city at a time,

Starting with Timbuktu in rehab.

He shoots his nuclear shit,

But they pre-detonate in his ass.

Kim becomes a plume of soviet dust,

A gigantic, fat, bulbous, fart gas.

Koreans north and south shit in his statue's mouth,

The dick dictator is decidedly dead.

People pissing in their pants with joy,

Vomit cheer on each other's head.

North and south like brothers march,

Towards a future bright as you can say.

People build toilets in Kim's likeness,

He gets shit on every day.

P2758

P2757

P2756

P2755

P2754

P2753

P2725 Science

I distinctly recall the moment when I felt that if I needed to understand the world, I wouldn't get very far by asking the adults around me, who gave vague, evasive, contradictory, and incomplete answers or eluded to magic, myths, and established hearsay. Why these questions didn't bring on an existential crisis posed quite a bit of consternation to my nerves as a rather thick-skulled child, nervous about and unsure of the world I inhabited. I failed to understand how you could have a working reality when nobody seemed to know how it worked.

The quandary that led me down the rabbit hole was about how a puddle of water disappeared without a trace. The sultry summer heat had something to do with it, but I didn't see the water boil away, even when I looked at it closely. Calcutta in the eighties (which hadn't been renamed yet) had an ostentatious daily crisis with power (which is still a struggle), and I sat there in the dim light of the flickering kerosene lamp, wondering why.

At that age, subjects taught in class were undifferentiated and often taught by one teacher. The science bits were in one book. This was 1987 specifically, a prehistoric age before the internet, making it quite difficult for the present generation to conceive. And in that science book, I saw an illustration showing how water in a container changes into water vapor all the time at the surface with air. Little black circles were densely packed in the section where it said it was water and far apart, with arrows attached to them, where it said it was vapor.

I had an "aha!" moment. I realized that not only was this explanation the best attempt at the question, but if I studied the right subjects, I would get a less contradictory universe to ponder, and an even less contradictory one after that, and so on. And I fell in love. I knew I had made friends with someone who'd always have an answer because something told me I'd always have a lot of questions. It was one of the most memorable moments of my life. Science is the only true friend I have.

I'm almost half a century old, and frittered my life in a country that doesn't value people for their merit. Right now, if India manages to get a group of sane people to lead who can throw out this garbage political bullshit and focus on the issues of the people, the country might have a fighting chance. Otherwise, with the existing politicians and their sycophants who live in their curated parallel universe of make-believe India, there's only dystopia for the laity.

Frankly I haven't seen mass psychosis like this, their hope hinging on some sort of a concocted holy hindu halcyon; I'm sure I'll be lynched by the mob as an atheist, when that's completed. Truth and honesty is anathema to most. The people can't choose if the choice is always looking back at some dramatized pristine myth. We need to look towards the future if any of our aspirations are to take off. It's only science that can save India or the world.

If I don't like you and you're an asshole,

I choke you with your socks.

I'm sorry I'm not polite,

It's just the hockey stick injury on my head.

I had bled out all common fucking sense,

Now I'm just bloody my eyes always red.

And fuck you too,

I hope your corpse rots in parts.

The shit that I think you are,

Will be flushed down,

In free municipal ferry carts.

He will rot in hell, no hello from god I tell,

I want to drown him in the sea.

But I sort of like the smell though,

Can't say I hate the taste.

Wonder what he ate last night,

What cheese stuck in this paste.

Cloud very loud, I'm not proud,

Need to hide or quickly run.

So much in my eyes,

I can't praise the glory of the sun.

Also the sense of direction is fucked,

Can't say I am in which axis or any.

Spasmodic pieces in my nostrils,

My mind vexed by issues so many.

O holy spirit, if you see fit,

Throw me a winning card.

Also I need your help,

To fuck this imbecile very hard.

Civilization fall to bits, people go to shits,

Entropy is a one way lane.

But, be that as it may, I am not gay,

Terrible is faith's constipated pain.

But poor hindu snot, this may is hot,

On the balcony his ass was spread wide.

I looked up, said what's up,

To his diarrheal stew on a gravity ride.

This is curious men without miss, with penis,

And a propensity to look at inaugural fair.

I shall not be a fool, control my drool,

When I see a hairy asshole in the air.

Plus too many of us, too few of them,

Bound to get shit on our face.

But before my mood murmurs low,

Must murder millions to avenge my disgrace.

Time is short, slime bubbles of sort,

Floating in the morning sea.

Or maybe I'm a Boltzmann sketch,

I drift through space and time.

Every time I complete the sketch,

I solve for another prime.

What day is it, in what coordinates?

Surely off axis when I run.

The flying teapot was as nonplussed,

As I was nonchalant.

Then opened a hole within a goal,

A span of an atom now fanning light years.

Stretched specious space time,

Hold on to your rears.

I know I'm going to just be here, not somewhere,

And where exactly is where?

Recursion is often hard to break,

Without a hammer used with care.

Now that may be an idea,

I need my box of carpenter tools.

I'll saw the milky-way in half,

Andromeda always full of fools.

The birds in my head chirping songs of the dead,

Requiem to the mourning I yearn.

A feeble hope in madness remains,

Only when memories of self will burn.

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