our atlantis split
on our woke geodesic
with only recently established lines of communication
or should we say inwardly
spiralling clouds of a helluva thought pattern?
the matter at hand is to find the placebo
before we drift too far
in the chemmart the apothecary in the head of the white
suited pharmacist whose fingers stir
keypad and screen to dispense
the encrypted prescription from an increasingly expensive
family physician in a generic ‘family’ practice…
oh-yeah-what-was-I-saying?
on our woke
geodesic
our one
dimensional embrace in the ever centric
cosmos of lies
which looks like, sounds like, smells like
the sat-upon emptiness of a deflated whoopee
cushion
a fart with no consequence
for what is this life
but the stale air in which once we breathed, moved and talked about
our very being?