Belief is a form of brain damage.

– Robert Anton Wilson


M I KE   E S S I G




The web of deceit holds many treasures.

Ruins. Relics. Rarities. Rubbish.

Discarded objects framed in shadow boxes.

I have secured a sinecure as a rag picker.

Things have really begun to pick up.

Oh Seer of Night. Oh seer of light.

Time wrinkles into a political blanket.

Cut one end. Stitch to other. Alchemy.

Russian women press their charms upon me.

Miraculous herbs cure ED and clogged colons.

Millions of dollars wait patiently in Nigeria.

The rat race can be escaped with a click.

Oh yes, I am a happy, happy, lucky man.

Chiropractors dressed as elves press kinks.

Randy cassowaries dance in a frenzy of lust.

Ducks drink ambrosia from flying samovars.

My toes twitch and taste the breeze.

My eyes feel the sweet sting of luxury.

When I meet myself I will fall in love.

Needy people are not part of The Plan.

They are black holes sucking away the self.

I am a blind man jaywalking during rush hour

hoping for a collision with Truth and Justice.

The Western Wynd blows through my straw bed.

It brings murmuring voices of demented reason.

All the bridges fall down and gently weep.

It is illuminating to see darkness so clearly.

Watches are synchronized. Battle is a shot away.

Here in the fragrant padded cell of me,

I contentedly contend with brief eternity.





 Image at: ©John Heartfield Prussian Archangel