Wordle #127


Spirits in miniature,

Peery-eyed and robust

These are the unknowns,

That which lives

But does not merit.

These are the gods of

Machination and manufacture,

Seamless specters

Cradling human flesh.

Sentience implies secrets.

We are haunted,

Apples in a quantum riot.

A fetid core harvested

By ingenuity,

A barely palatable whisper

Thrust into a flaccid rind.

The rule of threes

Governs our misfortunes.

Stories convene,

A rash of clues erupt

From the creases

Of an intrinsic exile.

We are golems

In a system

That recycles

And degrades us


A collective human musk

Claws its way to the surface,

Broken toys, skin-chasers.

The real revolutionaries

Bide in the fringe.

Our antagonism only

Minimizes our stature

Humanity is a condition of guilt,

A disavowal of instinct

We are enslaved to conjunctions,

To monosyllabic judgments

That mimic and gripe.


This is mostly nonsense I am well aware because I decided to write my thoughts when in a mental stupor. Anyhow I was thinking about bacteria and mushi (primitive ubiquitous creatures with supernatural powers that we can’t see). I was thinking what if humans are just tools? What if our thoughts are actually the cumulative thoughts of all those little nothings that exist inside of us? Without bacteria nothing would exist, so I thought what if they are gods, what if they are significant and we are by comparison a no-thing? No drugs were involved in the production of this poem lol I am exhausted and felt like going with the madness.