pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
—electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born—pity poor flesh
and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if—listen:there’s a hell
of a good universe next door;let’s go
–e.e. cummings
*tsk tsk*
“plays with the bigness of his littleness”
my mind is in the gutter, my mind is in the gutter, mymindis in thegutter….
sorry.
oh i wasn’t serious you know
Oh no. All good.