Rapidity of Splot
Always scheming, scarcely dreaming-is it bits, or bats, or both? Wind around a wrinkled walrus, best amend your tale of woe. ‘Cause it’s simple, as a pimple, for anyone to see, that the crazy isn’t lazy to the dreaming and the me. But don’t listen (there’s a siren) to the babbling I make. Every time I cough or chortle, I’ve most likely made a mistake.
Or have I wandered oddly off the road into the trees? Am I swishing through the grasses, stealing honey from the bees? What’s this rhyming, it’s so pointless: this has no reason, too! So I’m addled, and so saddled, I bet this makes no sense to you.
But it’s hazy, nothing complicated or wanton of perturbed confluence; simulacra eternally ensnared in the tumultuous confines of my patently overzealous and downright indignant creativity, always eradicating-because honestly, complicity in nightmares breeds malcontent-and revising convoluted monstrosities of both frightful and trivial competence. But it’s sanity that’s most odd, so sober and firmly derived from adult necessity; I won’t have it!
And it’s fair, but rare, so there! Hey, I’m hardly a roll model, you impressionable, lackadaisical infants. You’re determined to reduce everything to a quivering fountain of banality, except when you’re not-so chaotic! Some loudly proclaim we’re forged in God’s image, but what the hell does God need genitals for? I mean, what does God mate with, exactly? Isn’t presumptively reducing God to a male figure merely illustrating the inherent limitations of humanity’s imagination and our enormous propensity for arrogance? That’s a great combination! If I were God, I’d just erase humanity and start over; we’re a loss.
Ooooh, look at me: I’m whimsical! Where’s my monocle, pocket watch, and teacup? But then I’d be striding fully into the absurd, and that I couldn’t possibly condone. But why worry, what’s the hurry? I’ve slipped up more than once; twice for folly, and by golly, I’m something of a dunce. Don’t you see just what I’m doing, while I fritter to and fro? Like a beehive full of Chicklets, I’m a dangerous piñata-no, don’t ask the origin of that hyperbolic simile, my explanation would likely involve a recursive feedback loop of quintessential instability and render you mostly baffled-at least, if I were also full of Chicklets.
And anyway, who asked you?
Until Tomorrow
Originally published at BonesMoses.org. You can comment here or there.