Our Brothers Ourselves

Updated: Dec 18, 2019

The idea that ideas are dangerous . . .

 is dangerous itself.


Because it’s true.


Because everything is dangerous.


Even moderation can be carried to extremes.


Albert Camus spoke of limits.


But in an ever expanding universe with no edges . . .


where twisting turning space and time may be continuous or riddled with gaps . . .

where do limits come from?


Only clashes and interminglings?


Manifold vectors spinning through algorithms?


The statistical calculus of entropy?

exhaustion?


Or whitehole bursts of identity?




Our Brothers


Our Executioners


Our Ourobor0s 


Slurping the dredgy runoff murk of the Pierian


Simmering in its piss


Their brains joltified by comicbook zaps of current 

in dungeon basement lavatories 

sealed off from dark electric skies

mostly hairless nodes

emptied by resentment and rejection

waiting for the swelling pulchritude of Eureka!

but condemned to strap on travis bickle heat

and turn

and stride

away from foggy mirrors

toward eyeballs full of ardor.


They are


Our Brother


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