A Terminal Lunar Cataclysm (to someone)

i.

It all pulls together when you forget where you are
Immanent with feelings, squeezed like numbers
Diving, still squabbling, into Oblivion’s silver lair.

When words no longer count
And there’s nowhere to put your X-ray eyes
A systematic grinder, enemy of my Dream People,
Tries to suck your Soul away.
A falsehood generator transcends the memories
        and bins the words that still won’t swim.

Cardboard musicians gather in the square
Lay daisy chains for a fair
Then join the jesters online for the Culture preach.
No one can tell they have nothing to teach:
        I have proof of their mindless speech.

TV Voyeur gets wired for look-around
Tiresome nights when the skin bursts out;
Rags of woolly mutterers shout
And jump back in surprise;
They always have something risible up their sleeve ~
        a sphinx with a syringe.

Since they are heard so out of focus
Eclipsed in a fog of self-labouring clatter
Of passed-on suitable experience
They can never sing their heart in tune ~
They always have something garish on that sniggers.
I have on only myself . . . nothing less, nevertheless.
        (Yes, I suppose I’d let them cry in my waters,
          if they thought it worth the trip.)

ii.

The new brutes have replaced the old brutes.
In the banks of Havoc, with digital currency
They’ve gone past where the meaning is.
“Numbers are frightfully convenient!”
The world now celebrates their bad reception;
They walk, meanwhile, in simulation.
        (No use yelling! . . They’ll have you cronied.)

With a coarseness of purpose
They’ll turn away, putting off the day
In a rapturous sea of surfaces.
For an ordinary price
The rhythm of their lives can be sampled
Flowing seamlessly away from the heart,
In lovingly obscene tilted boxes, strapped on
With no thanks to the latest technology or “art”.
        Shake hands and walk away.

iii.

Unpunctured lilies
        pierced by goose-pimples
Crown batterings
        perched on burning senses.

Henpecked wanderers
        flare up in moonlight,
Itch to end
        the peaceful night.

Thoughtless fears
        vanquish mythology,
Stir memory showers
        in rhymes of glory.

A fool’s errand
        brings no recompense
When Doomsday
        suns up its substance.

iv.

Beyond identity, individuality ~
A connivance of unknown circumstances.
We must find the strength.
        Hands up who does not know how?
        Hands up now!

What am I then?
A heavy person who needs some light,
An old head on young shoulders;
My womblike arms are out to nurture reality ~
I’m out to kick the cynical apathy,
To laugh heartily and shine triumphantly;
In the oceans of chaos and financial debility
To end surprisingly the glum sentence.

        To move beyond catastrophe.

I don’t want to say this
And have you misunderstand:
        I’m not acting.
This could simply be pointless,
        you should already know.
For real, I love you
        but leave me alone
Until my mind comes through this
        cosmic interruption,
Eyes half-tucked with trinkets
        washed up from my heart . . .

Beyond sexuality, identity:
I throb, therefore I am
not alone, any more.