WOBBLESY

WOBBLESY

My wobblesy body feels like it was made of TS jelly wobbles and was

dragged Through the Looking Glass in search of a body of knowledge

manga fans oh how all the animations allow you to stylize my body horror

They do not give out Nobel prizes for nothing come

Follow Me
I shall take you out deep into no man’s land to where the Nobel Prizes grow graphic, thick and furious like a jungle or an industrial complex

oh this thing entropy nothing on earth and under the spell of gravity can resist your will
under your Sith serpent
power
      avoid
  becoming aged and bent,
  crippled by time or
flattened entirely; rolled tighly  into a Prufrock ball
              silver-papered
collapsing under mass of own gravity or hideous weight

such as the case
        with its monstrous prosody
that
      cuts through carves through
sinew and line
    thar mighf be way better expressed
But I am consciousness, damn it,
and will
      not be so undermensch, slave
mentality addressed

and so will resist
have it in me: in my D and also my A
to pull a radical chemistry,  total
kitchen-sink alchemy
become blob of early science-fiction
horror
        terror of the cosmos eveb
with ridiculous prop  and

sans world-altering green screen
philosophy-rewriting graphic
(that
    book hollowed out
where Neo
      hides his truth
truth you
        have to see
        and feel)
and as blob

name up in lights and
star of the John Carpenter show
lovecraft loving myself
    (yet nothing masturbatory)

demigod of
            sexual psychosexual
sixties psychedelic acid
dissolving everything in my slow inexorable path
and
        then some
putting paid (style of
                          late capital
economic erotic orgasmic ectoplasm)
of all that
          Borg resists, fails your

cosmic Turing test of simple logic
suppliy and demanfd
        not to speak of Malthusian
stupidities of my sweet but stupid
biodegradable humanity
      float tp the surface stuff in
the primal soup and
        expendable offal connecting tissue
body fluods
    in event of war and advent  of
armanents’ industry

could cry for
this humanity
if I had eyes
      and I  had tears
lurking in the undergrowth in
alien camouflage
              so far beneath ice and
fire
    and blasted rock planet
of your proverbial, perpetual underworld
below, beneath and

                so incomprehensible
to ali
that is Aesthetics of  Guides and Gods and
old outworn mythology of
Anglo American poetry
                                          modernist to
a cataclysmic
            fascist  failing fault.