Alchemy, Poetry, Psychology, Writing

The Marx Brothers

Mechanical me,
running like clockwork,
never a glitch or
a furrowed brow,
only absolute submission to
filling all gaps in time
and secondary space,
overseen by entities
reporting to multitudes
inhabited by parasites,
while breathing in
the vacuum,
compressing dust,
exhaling pure mindless
activity and
loosely prescribed
of hot air.