Homunculus Hunchback Herodotus (Triple H)

Posted by Erik Moshe on Thursday, March 20, 2014 Under: Poetry


World Wresting Fornication (WWF)
“was as real as it gets,” thought the protean authority vessel
watching footage through a third eye sewn shut
The History of the Persuasion Wars projected onto a biometric tablet
as proof that there were once giants who roamed
in the Vinicius tundras and out of the big shotokan temples
Their spines grey, with data filters and humongous overbites
Their pedigrees like that of a Notre Dame Sasquatch,
Golems in the bogeyman sense, known to jump from scaffolds
and land upon the vilified cushions of tampered history
which the protean considered to be somewhat accurate scrolls…
Man was destroyed by circumstance
yet gave birth to crustaceans of an optical blue sea,
the sky oceans, and the yellowish titanium islands of Arcanum
It recognized wholeheartedly (ticking time bomb respiration)
that an unholy homunculi was cemented in the artificial mind
sifting out of the catacombs of truth with tail between legs
The wresting match begins, when the old man from the library
is fitted igneous knowledge capabilities, causing a slight hunch

The stature is still of a broad shouldered, plasma-based android
entrenched in study hour like a ghoul taking notes on ghosts
that doubts the supernatural in its entirety (but don’t we all)
Jabbir Ibn Hayyan theorizes synthetic life…
The Rock’s famed elbow, drops people into dark ages
Philosopher stone cold Steve Austin transmutes disobedient image
who in turn goes on a strike, littering serene gardens with beer cans
Mankind doesn’t seem happy with the fall we’ve undertaken…
The fetus in Herodotus’ brain fed him word puzzles
born from an Ionian womb, (some say he was born too soon)
presiding over the ions, and the iridium turnbuckles
He brought equilibrium to the scholastic and the tangible
nudged alchemists as they nursed globes,
Regal eyeballs of destiny glowing like sapphires
in the bewitched winds of an Athenian gale in full wintry gust

The collage of chemical historia, a sour thought capsule
fizzes into darkness when the final show is over
as the steward hobbles away back to the protean archives
deciding that perhaps it was born to be a bookworm, after all

In : Poetry 



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