Insane xenon leopards absorb the radiation of a dieing sun until extinction. We, too, are at the bitter cusp of expiration. As we bask in the ooze of a bleeding economy, we stroke our thermo-nuclear-anti-matter pusycats and purr in a chorus of frustration. The tension in our skeletal suspensions has been tweaked too tightly, some might suggest. But would our heavenly neighbor, Jehovah, consider our scurrilous fate, supposing that he wasn’t tangled in his underwear? He’s as judgmental as the big-bearded heathens of the underworld and can procure no answer to our quandary.
Our patience is viscerally-entrained in optical illusions. We see, from the perspective of observant clouds, an oasis: A weather-blasted, African princess skates on a sea of volcanic sand. She glides softly before us increasing our languid desires up until the fusion of our seldom-used brain pipes. Could we obtain her shimmering silhouette with our inherited calculus? Hardly, for the figures are all mixed up and we are not astronauts of long-division.
We continue to pet. Our xenon felines provide all the tactile stimulation they can afford.
It’s so tantalizing that we now exchange soporific purrs amongst ourselves. The early moon eyeballs us and quietly falls asleep. The silly man on its surface, mowing space-dust, suddenly slips off. Down, he plunges into a sea of slime as florescent as our clinging shadows. He had been an inter-stellar patriot before his perfectly-obtuse demise.
We didn’t see it coming either. For all our curious visual penetrations of the paradoxical universe, we remain blind-sided by our anachronistic architecture.
Tromboned into a slippery Mobius sidewalk, we slide past the devil-doctor at the curb.
She hikes up her cardboard skirt and flashes us one of her smoking-hot seduction devices.
No matter, her sex doesn’t register in our genderless systems: We are merely robots of the moment. No use pondering over such complexities of life. Alternatively, we playfully purr with the ideations of obfuscated elephants on pogo-sticks. They don’t know why they do it; neither do we.
Yes, these are extreme days. Increasingly, these feral epochs gain independence from reality with each progressive ion evolution monsoon. The fate of nearly every metamorphic organism is certainly uncertain. While our xenon fur-balls will be here for us, and we know this, we garner no further estimations of the future. For without the blueprints to our incredible make-up, we remain dandelions, scattered here and there, by the Eternal, emotive leaf-blower.
Our patience is viscerally-entrained in optical illusions. We see, from the perspective of observant clouds, an oasis: A weather-blasted, African princess skates on a sea of volcanic sand. She glides softly before us increasing our languid desires up until the fusion of our seldom-used brain pipes. Could we obtain her shimmering silhouette with our inherited calculus? Hardly, for the figures are all mixed up and we are not astronauts of long-division.
We continue to pet. Our xenon felines provide all the tactile stimulation they can afford.
It’s so tantalizing that we now exchange soporific purrs amongst ourselves. The early moon eyeballs us and quietly falls asleep. The silly man on its surface, mowing space-dust, suddenly slips off. Down, he plunges into a sea of slime as florescent as our clinging shadows. He had been an inter-stellar patriot before his perfectly-obtuse demise.
We didn’t see it coming either. For all our curious visual penetrations of the paradoxical universe, we remain blind-sided by our anachronistic architecture.
Tromboned into a slippery Mobius sidewalk, we slide past the devil-doctor at the curb.
She hikes up her cardboard skirt and flashes us one of her smoking-hot seduction devices.
No matter, her sex doesn’t register in our genderless systems: We are merely robots of the moment. No use pondering over such complexities of life. Alternatively, we playfully purr with the ideations of obfuscated elephants on pogo-sticks. They don’t know why they do it; neither do we.
Yes, these are extreme days. Increasingly, these feral epochs gain independence from reality with each progressive ion evolution monsoon. The fate of nearly every metamorphic organism is certainly uncertain. While our xenon fur-balls will be here for us, and we know this, we garner no further estimations of the future. For without the blueprints to our incredible make-up, we remain dandelions, scattered here and there, by the Eternal, emotive leaf-blower.
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