Said Pracitioner:
... and I have donned these guilts of inadequacy for a hitherto unquestioned expanse of existence...
somewhere in the unbearable confines of this surgeon’s conscience:
lamentations implicit within an unbearable potential juvenilia
son, have i and the world (or you) failed you…

practitioner, i/you are pragmatic in somewhat schizophrenic stature
canker timbred malapropistic malpractice mondegreen geniuses
genesis scripting sequences of weak fetus’s sick leave grievances;
penchants financed by placebo morning-after prescriptions of sugar,
sodium, and cyanide affections chased with a saline cocktail on the rocks, salience, and gold extract clock
worldwide with pride mine/your hyde/jeckell
doctoral heckling so preciously and all the while wiling to conceive
an eve of hue-woe-man perfect synaesthetic organic mechanics achieved?

Twinn Zeus:
Is the earth spinning faster? Or are a thousand meteors falling?
Head spinning . . . Breathe, breathe life . . .
As the sun sets in the west, man crawls to his death,
Above sea level, soaring to the ground, skull hits depressed,
Concave, steel plate, with a pressure gauge attached,
Stress builds until the measuring hand snaps,
The sum of all part allows the weight of my actions to fall on broad backs,
Too much soul to be whack,
So much soul that it devours homophones, and runs rampant on tracks,
Purgatory personified with reptiles purring,
An auditory mirage, a collage, barrage of trivial yearning,
Swerving, serpentine surreptitious learning,
Lion’s den, spear tipped pen,
Amphetamine mental, alkaline burning,
Etchings, memories become scrap paper,
Shredded with a volley of purple light sabers,
Using Washington’s great debaters, in order to persuade her,
To do something now, that she is going to regret later,
Nothing’s sweeter than thine own thigh’s eye,
Tempest tantrum, Tantra, lows, highs,
Hearts stretched with love only come in one size,
It’s too tight and it won’t fit, I tried,
Decisions split, split . . .
Split known incision quit, attempts to resist, clinging to the entrance,
Through which, wooden horses slip in,
Sharp notes and modal melody, seldomly
Do we, follow the blurred ideology,
Of a secularized state caught up in trial monopoly,
Sloppily, seconds become minutes, minutes become hours
Hours, ours, tick-toc


Said Practitioner:
ours is a time spent regardless of wellness
well, perhaps the slightest bit of selfishness
off kilter quell simper shush
whimper, dirty feud clenching he:
concept 3253 is the last
drastic attempt at decadence
descendent of tragic deficit
unerring elocutionist
of wit, resolve, wherewithal, etiquette, cortisol

FUCK THIS FOURTH WALL

in three dimensions
where is the damn point of entry - ascension?
and moreover,
towards what humanity are we hastening?
and where is that guitar rationing?
ahh… lull me into a state of blank awakening…