I. Here's the thing:
My symptomatology's presented with a bitter naked glossolalia at their learnèd conferences,
Where implant Twitter Radio parasites,
Gilded surgical interventions of Area 51 false effigy Angels,
Tweeted detailed dystopian demonic disaster diagnoses for impostor shocktor doctors' delectation.
It's my Borderline Debacle Paraphilia, aggravated by addiction
To licorice vodka served in sleek anthracite goblets,
Abetted by a thousand voice albino choir chanting Hildegard von Bingen's Kyrie Eleison!
"Can't you hum some more melodic motif?" I once asked the funereal choirmaster.
"Talk to the hand", he answered, shoving buzzing cyborg digits in my face.
I said, "Mister, I don't give a flying fat frittata for your feudal feminista funk!"
II. All considered, logically
Shouldn't I have been banished by now (without recourse, without remorse)
To brain bank cities underneath a darkly powdered lunar sea?
Instead, I beg to be brainwashed with ultraviolet vacuum video,
By the secret Triad trillion trillion terabyte bangster gangster prankster Google God.
"Force feed me", I am pleading!
Frankenstein forensic robot brain enhancements
Bestowed by bulimic, biometric botched lobotomy slaves, sleepwalking without panties
Down the spotless, stainless steel hallways of City Morgue,
Each with gleaming polished trays displaying rainbow rows of hypodermics.
III. They say the pharmacology
Mimics a particle accelerator: one obsessive thought injected like a plasma,
Driven by repeat reversals in the poles of personality.
Parametric ego tendrils stretch to nearly-breaking as synaptic speeds are broached.
Light speed looms up like a blinking eye: a cobalt blue eye of unfathomable depth,
Tinted with a school of tiny golden flecks, swimming like koi.
Shadowed digital displays upon the Moon mark both the time elapsed and the velocity,
Monitored by Sergey Brin in mirrored shades and trench coat
Black as emo boys' mascara.
Asynchronous computers calculate increasing mass and energy as the cyclotron contains a sunburst,
Unfolding like an origami dragon, morphing like a child's kaleidoscope,
Blazing beams collected, focused, zeroed in upon their target singularity.
IV. And then WHAM!
The impact bursts all logic links, transforming every meaning.
Transfixing every meaning! Transgendering every meaning!
All the cool contempt of faceless, feckless bureaucrats
Explodes into a wild and roiling cloud of superhot ideas,
Shooting microscopic bits of rage and fear and curiosity and inspiration
In a vast expanding sphere,
Every line of sacred manifesto manifesting in vestigial curving tracks,
Trapped and preserved on photographic plates inside a bubble chamber
Buried under the Escarpment.
V. But then there's this:
That that perverted protocol's reserved for parlous prophets like Francis E Dec,
Disabled under protest, under pretext, deep inside the Pilgrim Psychiatric.
I am still here, still sitting patiently within the Latex Lounge awaiting fate,
With nineteen supernumerary limbs folded politely in my lap like faceted electric tentacles,
Ready for my subcutaneous rush of random racist radium rapture revelation.