guarding your hole,
neither your wife nor you
will cuckold the other's colourful soul,
so sit
on your coming two.
in peace
for strife is your least
affliction to fear of in life;
so gaze at the geese, and take time to feast
or go
for a drink with your wife.
it's dawn,
perhaps you'll mourn
 - to the honeyguide's carefree song -
two eggshells torn, but a third one born
your son
who survived the wrong.


Somewhere about there’s a slithering sound of man’s enmity,
causing excitement and casting the seeds of calamity,
claiming enlightened revision of old postmodernity.
Oh! But the thought is as novel as man in eternity.

Lewis and Ransom have shown us to view the transhumanists
in the same light as Mark Studdock and Feverstone’s futurists:
some are as wholly committed as Babylon’s atheists;
others are following blindly the lure of these dataists.

Tempted to self-exultation, they’re striving for deity;
how can this hideous fate be the talk of society?
Dreams that dilute all the values and truth of humanity,
genuine glory exchanged for a dead singularity.