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Peyote Soul Ramble

a soul is not a thing to be made and played
in a card game against Buddha and lords, nor
does it exist if metaphysically termed to death,
and then we butcher ourselves with intangible notions
and emotions why don't we find our soul, maybe we 
killed our soul, or if not then it 
doesn't exist; actually one would be hard pressed
to find his soul chip on demand because humans
are delicate computers and they scream if opened to be
tinkered on - unless you got drugs.
        Ergo you only find soul with drugs?
        Peyote-whacked American Indians could tell you that.

   What we want is to find ourselves so we narrow
   Ourselves until we're squeezed out and we've
   Got a label. Here's mine: intellectual.

So maybe we shouldn't play games with
ourselves and wrack and cry and sigh cause we
don't know why or who exactly we are?
We may as well, what fun - sledding down neuroses
and flinging ourselves across synaptic gaps, playing
Parcheesi with Oedipus, but fuck the brain
cause we got heart which isn't a computer but
why not claim it as a victory anyway?

        ah, glory!
        ah, whatever!
        ah, love!
        ah, poetry!
All of these things are meaninglessness but here's what isn't: electricity
   because electrons, them things is really small but
   where will You be while they're still rolling along?
   In the belly of some worm, that's where, and
   not even an important one at that.

But here's what humanity has provided you with, so that
you don't have to fret:
   the copper wire of society, so that all you
   have to do is disturb your environment and
   this impulse rolls along the cord forever and ever
   and ever.

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