Mmmy Collection of Enthusiasms

That pataphysical pal gets the capital treatment
And he says I need an afflatus spark.
I decide to listen up, out of fear and belief.
He's been my buddy since I can remember.
So it should never be a matter of dispute
that I'm all over whatever he says.
He says too much is stochastic these days.
And that the New World Order has spun an imbroglio
and web of conceit, a spider spinning out of control,
catching nothing for all the work.
He says: The miasma you sense comes from
the rotted corpses decaying
in the graveyard of creation.
That's your body of work piling up like bones,
picked and cleaned between the teeth of Abaddon.
Your words rise like wicked ghosts,
haunting the mesmerized minds of no one.
He knows I was on fire many times
and all those inventions are smoldering in the pit.
So why add to that heap, I wonder.
Ponder not, he says. For the process is all that matters.
He tells me I should know it's almost over
because the last epic poet died in a motorcycle accident
far away from Homer.
So don't bother to turn the channel:
Demand to see more
because everything is just a click away.

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