The deluge will come,
warm waters will lap at your home,
the plague will increase
& we creatures will perish.
The meiotic dance
in our speciation
could have been a trance
not a deception,
biophylia in the masque of eros
in life after estrus.
Evolution doesn’t say
& perhaps on another day
it’s androgynous anyway.
& we’ll sequence the genome
again, in trans-genderey,
at the end of the century,
a new human womb
in the womb of time,
or will we start it all over again,
from homo sapien to homo rapien!
Talking heads loom, expert
in this, authority on that,
profession, specialisation, prophet
in this, last word on that, then fit
into the screen, focus the information,
take it down, you are now one of them.
The crowd is full of strays,
being sent home,
embedded in the grain.
& all stories are the same
swallowing themselves like Uroborus,
who in its own dream disappears,
only to appear again.
