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Weather forecast,
whether we’re outcasts,
vultures or locusts feeding
on societal outcries, cultures
spiral and yet we keep the motion,
the mantras, we’re martyrs, crucified
for wordplays and rhyme stunts,
we busk in sunlight, enlight the dark,
float the ark, peel the bark,
the tree trunk our canvas,
write with larva, when our larvae
forgets how to follow timelines,
we trim time, mohawk, it’s more
walks to the back of our minds,
it’s Sodom, it’s the head aches, after
the swallowing is foretold, we form
thoughts, scratch pots until a
symphony forms, we dangle from
shoe strings, deities trip on our Jordan sea,
in instances we’re entities
with identities spiralling, gods and
man: carrying anuses, abusing fiends,
we claim to live, spit out the green leaf,
we’re underpaid mercenaries, teaching
peasants the art of crafting philosophies
and indepth dichotomies, God’s autopsy,
it’s a taboo lobotomy, go on your knees,
flip flop reality, we realise the tapestry
of your false matrix coated with CGIs,
we’re sanctified, underqualified sages
licking on envelopes, sending divinity
to those who the illusions never stole,
we hang stiff on strip poles, serious
life; we’re mindful sloths, every
step takes a lot to be, meddling with
the hidden, wisdom of heathens,
plough bedridden gardens of Eden,
we decrypt the riddles, mingling with
daemons, we’re the payphones to
the cosmos, toss a coin and we
wave, lengthening and shortening
our way to home, not to Rome.

Gallop the flow, the oceanic tone,
the unlimited ridges do form,
where slaves encounter gore,
steep slopes as lines keep to haunt,
we drown most in the illusion of
it all being verbal and nothing more,
knock on your thoughts, knocking
out most with the puns and charms
in these time lines and blood lines,
we punch lines, we derive divinity
not in the sky line, we dine with
those whom you fantasize, we
trim down the highlights, dimming
the tower from where our wisdom
lights, Babel scribes, we survived
the collective godly homicide.
We decide what astounds minds,
craft still gentrified and mechanichanilized,
librarians with old eyes, Hobbits
failing to see the glowing kids,
the goats are already goatmeat,
let the young climb the hills of
skulls and bones; the hills have eyes
for most, jeep the creepers,
Eugene the Jeep; follow the wrong
turn home, no longer clones,
we rise from loom soil, we’re
loose canons; blowing cannons
to those flowery poetic beds in your
Canaan, we’re the giants that
Moses hoped to know, we elope
to the throne of bones just to be termites
on it all; Game of Thrones.
We’re not to be scorned by
entitled authoritative whores,
publishing houses that are morgues
of dreams that died with fullstops,
rejection is a sore throat, hard to
swallow with every drop.⤵️

Chew beads on every rosary,
tired of the formalities, and
the formal lies on those email inboxes,
exposure is the torture of financial hope,
write poems and submit like you’re
dealing dope, hide behind a palm,
talk to the palm before the decimals
wiggle their tailbones, we’re the fallen,
the entities that made no sense,
scary Persians, Babylonians tired
of asking for loans to feed the
baby at home, the lullaby has nowhere
to come from, the voicebox has been
shipped back into the box, can’t
speak out of the box, now stand in
a row you ox, your butchering comes;
debauchery; follow your true dreams
through the path of wet ones with the
editor of the editorial team, die in
your divinity and keep that bleeding
pen, sacrifice it not for the penny.

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Benjamin Alire Saenz

℗ Philosophistication Poetry ℗

2020 All Rights Reserved ©

Kernel Panic

To be or not to be?

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