Teddy Bear Simulation
You change your face every single day
so I sometimes wonder if you are a happy bear or a sad one
within our crazy and cozy room
resembling a pauper's mansion
that is honeycombed between jail cells in our chaotic simulation,
our cosmic tomb.
You change your face every time I pay you a visit before dawn,
around our all-powerful witching hour
so my spirit will become infused with inspiration like an embryo in its mother's womb.
You change your face every time music plays
to show approval or lack thereof
with your eyes staring at the coming day
just beyond destiny's flower
and contemplating along an Epicurean byway.
Teddy is your brand name; your real name is gone
beneath the karma of slave labor and night's gloom
before we arrive at liberation
but our cities are twiddling their thumbs before the apocalypse
underneath our firmament which is polluted with exhaust and fumes
from what we require for food, work, heat, and showers
across smokestack empires
sinking into a sea of doom.
But our solar system is just one rainbow date
like one grain of a dune
among cosmic scores of billions.
a puckery starburst with cabin fever in Aaru
above this hell listening to Amy Winehouse and The Doox
that liberated you near their theater of the absurd in 666 Square:
"Devils of demons or gods and goddesses for a painterly day
Fiery Tabasco gadabouts or da capo Gadarene purgatory
Pacific peacemaker sold down the subterranean Styx and Lethe rivers
to Paradise or Siberia. Or the tangerine sea
from the last universe in the megaverse forced to listen to the gabble of the cross rabble"
so an anomaly towards an anodyne curse
down the street from your house of sorcery?
Lachrymal swindlers will consume
the scat of gold but not the spiritual gold of truth
that is harder to attain
manufacturing a delusion of gold
distorting reality down to its bits
by tempting the rabble.
For a science of spiritism can bring comfort to the unwashed masses
The selfless witch stirring people in her cauldron
eroding the incarnations of grand canyons.
For my reactionary words are much too uncouth
I'm an ungrateful spoiled brat who hates his nation
not a con artist who makes millions
upon millions telling people what they want to hear before singing a new tune
below a Christmas capital winter sky that brings melancholy fits
of terror or neurosis on our holiday
around a solar martyr's fake pagan birthday used to groom
our people into subservience to be the last bastion
of turning the other cheek or worse
for nowhere and one-bedroom apartments are our only holidays,
furthermore we're expected to cry and offer onions
Adam's apples on executioners' blocks after enduring struggle sessions at the confession booth.
It is a new day.
A volcano ejaculated lava
for to cum is both to lose something and to potentially make something new.
Babylonian bacchanal of the future universal Shiva
not the elite cult of few,
the one percent who don't really care about civilians
elderly friendless celibate homeless men hanging around in barrooms
a young man reacts to a bum with moody snakiness
and with a baneful tongue begins his story:
"The Penis and Testicles are works of beauty and I'm not ashamed to say I like them more than Woman's Flowers. A painting of Byron made me say I wish I could sleep with that beautiful Man--one in a million. Although my Stick was used for Ladies, I did rub Sticks with a Brazilian. It was my only Dicks experience; you bums had none. We let fear dictate how we used our Dicks and you lost decades, but I've found my Groom."