3 Sonnets: Dying, Dying, Dead

Zhi-Khro Bardo Thodol.
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3 Sonnets: Dying, Dying, Dead

I. The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Audio Edition

I'm scared. The pyramids are piling up.

Pol Pot-like noses, penises, skulls, toes,

fingers, ears, teeth, and brains. They come, bulldoze

high and low. Floods release faces smiling up

from the shallow graves of all those who knew

more than the shallow evils knew. Poems,

doctors, visions, shamans, builders, bohems,

jumped from behind and never had a clew.

Rex tyrants saur at us. Digistim clowns --

John Wayne Gacys, Sons of Sam -- in charge,

ambassadors of destruction at large,

bits-and-pieces pyramids and crackdowns.

The monsters are busy under my bed.

Sleep with The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

.

II. Elon Musk for Menà "ž

The real virus unleashed is in our heads.

Sure it's that hivemind sh*t that makes us scroll.

Our better-natured angel goes all troll

when we see our false dignity in shreds.

Feel I know fellow avatars better

than my own family; more forthcoming,

and Quark X's snarks don't leave me bumming;

my lip-sister's bites can make me stutter.

I don't really know where we are heading,

but mad science is in charge of our futures;

made in God's image, Silicon sutures;

The homo singularitus wedding.

Live in delusion, don't know about you.

Suspect you, too, don't have a f*cking clue.

.

III. I Still Love the Moody Blues: There, I Said It

When I was a child, I could not know what

kind of flower I would grow up to be --

rose, fleur de mal, or parade jubilee --

the oracle I consulted was a twat.

I'd go blind listening to the Moody Blues

and they just made me feel melancholy:

Is that the way the world works? Golly.

But I loved them like a goody two shoes.

When the bombs dropped it was not okay;

Just a Singer in a Rock and Roll Band

would not solve the worldly shrugs of Ayn Rand;

I majored in philosophy: I pay.

When I sing, Where have all the flowers gone?

now -- well, they tuck me in with trazodone.