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…
our woke

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
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?