a cyber punk age Prophet Jonah

I am a digital fish
an eternal outsider

random voices
are making up
a volatile matrix.

(life)

these voices,
are constantly murmuring
behind the telephone lines.
“do you hear’em?”

some’re telling the future
some don’t tell the past.

lost sense of time,
while looking
for an artificial prophet
to assimilate.

(a death?)

planned rebirth
on the shores of the city.

yet apparently
doomed.

(regardless).

a Freudian slip

“Hell is other people.” Jean-Paul Sartre

a momentary craving for a cigarette
and following self nullification
to the imbuing smoke;

dissolving dirt, the lard and grease
of haunting thoughts
and pillaged contentment.

then blow this toxic mix outward
and saturate in random curl!

yet, an ephemeral Freudian slip
will annul itself in due.

I’ll stay.

today, I met Jonah for the third time

stuck in the subway car.

(wry face, agoraphobic).

the narcissistic conscience
is trying to repel the unstoppable self-nullification.

(around).

a boy eating a chicken breast sandwich.
a young woman is sitting next to him and playing on her phone.
their facial expressions are bluntly identical.

(aloof)

periodically the sharp shrieking noise penetrates the skull-bone,
the last defense of my swollen mind.

one guy is walking from one end of the car to another
he lost himself between the people,
chanting nonsensical mantras.

“dee-dee, daa-daa, doo-doo, the toothless wolf will come for you.”
(he stops next to me, I look at him)
“it must be you has been swallowed again?
there must be helluva storm on the surface”.

The Second Martian’s coming/Mo The Prophet

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They’re coming,
said Mo the prophet.
You’ll see,
their ships are closing on us.
Soon we’ll turn into the galactic organic waste.
As matter of fact,
we already are, – a galactic waste.

Mo the prophet,
Mo The Prophet.

I smiled back,
wished him luck and took an M34 bus.
Mo, you didn’t change since
the last time I saw you.
The high school dork, same cracked glasses.
Skinny,
unshaved,
same sad-smiling bleak eyes.

Mo the prophet,
Mo The Prophet.

He lived in the one bedroom coop in Park Slope.
Was a VP at the coop’s board.
Always tried to be elected for a chairman,
but never succeeded.
Always outnumbered by one voice.
Every time before the bedtime prayer,
that he was meticulously saying,
he always cherished the idea
to get that bastard who voted him out,
and kick his balls.
Yes, Smack’em!

Mo the prophet,
Mo The Prophet.

He collected newspaper cuts about Martians.
Tried to publish a book, on this topic,
but didn’t find the publisher.
Finally he published it as an eBook,
and tried to sell it on Amazon,
but was rejected.

Mo the prophet,
Mo The Prophet.

He was able to date only one girl,
she was attracted to him by his ideas.
but dumped him eventually,
a few months later
for a guy who practiced some ancient Siberian shamanism.

Mo the prophet,
Mo The Prophet.

Since then, he never got married.
He never had dated too, didn’t have any kids.
He was spending some money on the local prostitutes.
was buying them flowers
drugs for their honest care
and remorse that they were awarding him.

Mo the prophet,
Mo The Prophet.

Rejected by everybody & everywhere.
Even New York post refused
to write about him in their “weird but true” section.
He tried to stage a few gigs on The Times Square.
But was eventually was beaten by some wasted teenagers
and then got arrested for the public disturbance.

Mo the prophet.
Mo The Prophet.

Yesterday I received a call from some attorney.
He said that Mo has committed suicide
burning himself in the middle of the Wall Street.
He left me the old fat folder
of newspaper cuts.

Mo the prophet,
Mo The Prophet.

The day after his funeral, Martians have invaded our planet.