Unreasonable Math

For a very long time now, well,
an eyeblink in geological terms; no wait,
a mudslide in geological terms? An eyeblink
in biological terms. A ring stained in wood,
in botanical terms. In relative terms,
a dead uncle.

In inverse cosmological terms, an eternity.
In terms of vague understatement: for a while. For
a very long time now, there have been no reasons
and I see no reason to start having them now. I have
no truck with reasons. I don't need
to explain my reasons. I don't cotton to
those. You're not the boss of me, but you
are pretty boss I must admit, and
I need to do a better job, frankly.
No reason.

It just feels like it.
Not even I feel.
It feels.

I am going to go worry some people.

I will use fingers,
and possibly lips, and possibly
a soft lush brush of some
delicious variation in texture
and sensation, and I will worry them
deep inside. I will worry them
at their borders, at their edges,
at their fringes and see
if they fray.

If they do, I will claim the fault
for the idea, and vice-versa, and
I will refute each of those claims,
and I will do it easily, each in turn.

See what they have to think about that!

Feel what they have to taste about that.
Hear what they have to stink about that.
Smell what they have to say about that. Halitosis,
you see, and synaesthesia: an unbeatable combination

you can't get anyplace else but the human brain!

Or so we perceive dimly, as if through a looking
twice. The human brain: a miracle of Intelligent
Evolution, now on sale for a song, for a steal,
for what that and a cup of coffee will get you,

which depending on the steal could be fine,
imprisonment,

I don't care.

There have been no reasons
since I gave up that last cigarette,
and the one after that,
and the one after that. Technically,
I guess, what I'm giving up
is less the cigarette
than the butt.

Are you surprised that I would give up the butt?

I couldn't help it.
I was in a corner. My health
was at stake. To be honest,
what I miss most now was that smooth,
relaxing, satisfying flavor
and you could say
this whole thing has gone South, not
even ventrally - which would not
be so bad! Which could be lovely,
depending on one's pet taboos
and the disparate acts and personal
variables of persons and attraction-math
that all add up (as far as you're concerned)
to the magic number 144 on your personal scoreboard:

Gross!

That's right, and you shouldn't be surprised.
I am running the dozens now. Ask your mother,
and she will tell you the same damn score, and
give no reason. She isn't the whore

in this particular yo' momma joke. Look
in the mirror.

I am.