A transient world of transitory-
beings exist, where its inhabitants live
and live to never die
(to rest in a dream-like state forever)
The land where angels swoop in to tell you:
the right numbers to win the grand lottery—which splits-
even with all the world’s inhabitants,
a world where everyone’s a sure winner and consequently the sore
loser as equality rears its jealous head
(and everyday is judgment day)
Where every man lives out a perfect life
only to find his wife, mistress and their lovers in cahoots
with fate. Man withers and wakes up inside
his mother’s womb, where life was a dream (and little else).
(each man does the same. Crawls back into his mother,
who crawls into hers, and hers, and hers, and what
is left is a world pregnant with promise—
and little else)
Where each and every whim is made real but subdued, and
sci-fi fans are abducted by aliens, slaughtered
but never die. And wake up disillusioned to become skeptics
of life and the preternatural.
The land where man and woman are equals
(he despising her rigidity; she resenting his missing spine)
both sexless and without passion, loveless and
thinking the other bland.
And nobody wants, and none left wanting.
And fresh milk is curdled.
And deus ex machina is worshipped and secretly
spited.
Reality is chaos. Happiness a popular branch of anarchy.
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