poem: Enigmtacus Succubus a poem on Randomness by Mike Glover

“This is the thing, all the energy is flowing

In parallel lines in opposing directions constantly, like the tides of the
oceans.” She said,

While the stars whirled their predictable circles above,

We were waiting, moving forward in some bent convertible an accidental

Rip in the ether.

“All things move forward in a predictable fashion I would have to agree, but
yet

There is compelling evidence of a certain

Randomness.”

There are trends, we must agree, and happenstance

Weird trailers of mood and wispy silhouettes of graceful roots and pure

Intentions.

“The wickedness of it all,” She said, “Sometimes I feel like a psychic booger
magnet.”

“That’s crude,” I replied,

“Perhaps it is but the fact still remains, nonsense has a price,”

“Perhaps it does,”

“Indeed.”

“Speaking of chaos”

“I never said chaos, ” “I know but there was an implication, there’s always an
implication.”

“Back to things moving forward in a predictable fashion, I believe that some
patterns are

So complex they may only repeat themselves

Every hundred billion cycles but

I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

“Either do I.” “Who?” “What do you mean?” “What did you say?”

“Oh nothing.”

“There are pigeons everywhere,”

“That’s because they live here..what were you saying about wicked, psychic
boogers?”

“They’re everywhere.”

“Quite.”

“People, everywhere in their giant, turning hemispheres, hoping and churning
out

Urban legends and foil wrapped monosodium glutamate protein cakes

Of love.”

“But it’s all moving forward?” “Quite. “She said. “It is moving forward in
exponential numbers,

All the millenniums

Spinning in the eternal, grace of the universe forever.”

“There is a cold, flat place in my soul.” “I’m sorry, we’ve all had one of
those, the question is

Does it hurt?”

“Well yes, the truth is sometimes it feels like smiling with no teeth and they
look

Right through me.”

“But does it hurt?”

“I can feel the darkness and the wretched, aimless, electric wandering

Of your soul in this wasteland,”

“Where you are, I have been.”

“Sometimes I worry that things are going backwards.”

“Why would you worry about that?”

“You tell me.”

“There is a lot more dead shit in the bosom of the earth than there is alive

in it right now.”

“Who said that?” “I did.” “I know but surely someone said it

Before you?”

“Why?’ “What?”

“Never mind.”

Splitting the atomic hymen, the generic, bloody, mutated

Face of hell and spinning, spitting and cursing

The terrible, cyclonic descent

Rolling back upon myself

And you.

Roaring through the ages I have come

To this, the poison abyss, all the humanity and every breath, every passion
like

A glowing ember, turning again over and over down the street ahead of

A pensive, misplaced wind

Rolling over and over and over upon itself.
***

Comments