Here is a hand drawn lifetime Which I hold up to the light, Just as it appears in reality. It looks too much like A troubled, drawn, mess. Which beggars belief. A torn strip of a B existences, Drudged in the gloopy syrup of time, Slow and secluded, styled and misled. Deceived and deluded Dumb and derided. It is a simple, singular blip in universal time. As the three arrows pointed out, Insignificant, as this life is, Most don't even make it to an event horizon. And the case for a Timescape? And the case for a Singularity? And the Event Horizon? © 2018 Christopher Thompson All rights reserved
If God is a Mere Polymath
And God made humankind,
Always been Merely Monomorphic?
God being Exochronic, that is existing outside of chronology,
Beyond time or out of reach.
Reason, leds on to Reasoning,
Then there is Ontological argument, consider.
Accept or Reject?
Tick the following boxers that apply to you.
Then tock all other(s) which do not.
Reap, Linear, Cyclical, Northern.
Love, Limp, Language,
Singularity, Collapse. Big Crunch, Code, Science!
Science or séance?
You deride, you decide.
© 2018 Christopher Thompson All Right Reserved
What is it I allude to
Within the complexities of time.
The arrows of time,
The linearity of time,
Or is it space time,
Or the simple neglectful
Waste of anyones’ time?
The force or the cube
Is it theory or touch?
What is then to be?
Or that which, is what ever is, watchable?
And then there are the calculations.
The numb number crunching equations, evasions.
Tables and formulae,
The scalp damaging quadrilateral forth dimension,
The pulp and the neuron.
Be it Algebraic symbolism
Used to try to explain,
The cusp at the nub
Of the clot on the brain.
The despair and the culture.
Astrophysical and tyrannical
The wheel of probability
Rolls over pain to the innocent.
Whilst others watching the sky
Are looking for Simons corner.
It is probably just over there. Or it was, is.
This being the rub for,
You who are watching the past.
And are trying to figure it out.
The rain in Spain
Falls mainly, not here.
Who has such time to waste?
Time is in transit, or might be.
The delicate suffer regardless of such study.
There is the noise of death everywhere.
And the planet keeps revolving, for now.
Who has a care about The Nebular Hypothesis,
When the carers cry
“Here is another baby, Who is about to die”?
All life is short and Presidential, personal.
For the bending of light is upon each of us .
It shines over Aeons and comes past fast and is futured.
And the stars continue to laugh us off.
Because we are the late comers
Who have come to view the cosmic fireworks.
And time is of, and in our lives.
It is as fast, as it is slow.
It shudders around our newly awakened hours,
Wherein we are longing to know all things.
But is this a deadly distraction,
A collusion, a conclusion of minds,
To know the Mind of God?
© 2018 Christopher Thompson
IT IS AS IF Look Down, We are still alive, just. There was no planning for us. There were no rehearsals. We just sort of came. We know that for us, There will always be less. We just have to grin it, We sort of just bare it,N Just like the Stoics that we are. After all and to be honest, We always just carry on; Because there is no justice for us. Whilst we are doing so, The cascade of promises, And all those out of reach opportunities Fall scapegoating beyond our reach. We have been missed again. A strange circumstance For us for sure, As we are such A Big Target to hit. Because of this we value less The words delivered By those who are inclined to be teachers. To be judged as not capable, As not viable in the long term, Is simple put, well not nice. Yet it describes the outlook of those who have to live it. This is the truth of ignorance trapped in poverty. So we shuffle along a bit more And when needed we centre our vote, On another ephemeral set of policies, In what they describe as a manifesto. It is their simplified list to be sold, And we The Voters are to be sold at. (Note, an Algorithm can not even Categorise us a people). But we are otherwise engaged. We have to be In order to survive. We are on the other side Way, way over yonder. In fact we are so way off message, We are not even clueless, We are actually trackless. (There isn't even a track For us to be from the wrong side of) Left alone again we will become re-stupefied And eventually congeal and die. That is usually the way in our world. Some call it Cancer, others call it neglect. The cycle of inheritance for us Always stops at death. We bring nothing with us, We take with us even less. We are however a few less to. . . To be soaked up, To be governed. It is as if We. . . We were never here. © 2018 Christopher Thompson. All rights reserved.
The idea is the idea. Thereafter there is no such thing as context. The raw is the real, and the Oxford comma is a mere invention intended to confuse. The oral is as the ocular, and the nest; the means of understanding. Inflation is Cosmic and there is more than one singularity.
So to some Poems. . .