Our Brothers Ourselves

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