Waiting room
Here we are again,
Come to see the man,
The new-age practioner of a mediƦval art
Holding out new roses for a neuroscience.
The phtt-phutt-phizz (this is not rocket science) of al-samoud music,
No afternoon delight, this:
Shooting stars, cascades of sub-atomic decay,
Making super-novae hollandaise sauce
Gleaming with Australian dyes.
Not so headstrong as a boy, he were
But look at him go now!
Bursting on the unscene
Like blobs-of-protoplasm-baked-in-a-matrix-of-long-chain-carbohydrates
(Raisin bread).
He's part staff of life, part stuff.
Animism, as isso often-said,
Needs a spark of liff,
A spirited off-license,
A life sentence, a place
Where they sell you lard for your ill-ensheathed nerves.
Perhaps it's prions, or pre-ons, or postons, or peons
Or post-it notes what lost their gum.
He's insensed about a life unsensed.
But we were talking about the man
And the space between our ears.
Like a Van der Graaf generator.
Can this sooth soothe the music of the spheres and these fears?
For brief years yet what do they really know?
One might practice phrenology on a bowling ball with a bat,
Save it's his turn now with the alchemist.
Six months since and he wants to talk about work.
- It was pretty bad, wasn't it? In the news, I mean.
- Oh, so-so.
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