THE PLOT — NUTSHELLED
In epic-styled poetry, I present to Earth, a gift. And whilst technically MORONS AND ALIENS is satire, beyond satire ‘tis for Pangaea, panacea. Take not too lightly my MORONS AND ALIENS.
The gist of the plot is that Art and I (once upon a time, ex-womb-mates), are reunited, Donald having once upon a time, kicked Art from their mom’s s womb-space, clear into a future, alien.
In a miraculous intervention, Arthur, in the nick of time from the future has returned to help me save planet Earth in spite of ourselves and indeed in spite of — threatening, illegal, aliens.
Vladimir (Vlad) Vladimirovitch Putin, is the lad from Leningrad, now the President of Russia, who is my mentor. And whether this ends up happily for Vlad and me — or not — depends.
Through a portal and along an elongated path is the way of the Pilgrims Progress. Paths that run toward our galaxy’s black hole, run, in parallel. Primrose paths too mark, the Pilgrims’ Progress.
My healthy orange pallor, a green hue took on reading Patricia’s, glowing,!reviews. Still, I’ve got Art’s Philosopher’s Stone like phone. A key plot device — to get us home or to home, progress.
Nobody ever talks about this too. An algorithm transcendental, potentially, is Jack’s Twitter’s algorithm. Ideal for the conversion of prose to poetry, it is ideal, effective, cross disciplinarily.
The ironies indeed, are many. Life’s unfair. Still, Paris beckons; so too Moscow, Beijing, Riyadh and Pyongyang. Vlad and his guys are buying in to the possibility of my wild, conspiracy, theory.
For public consumption is whatever Vladimir and Xi may say these days about Joe Biden and geopolitics, in general. They’re worried about the possibility, of my sound, conspiracy, theory.
Recapitulating, Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms, and half as many, minds. Losing our arms has been bad but losing our minds will be worse if not long-lost, actually.
I head a body with countless arms and minds. The loss of our arms has been bad but losing what’s left of our minds will be worse, actually. There’s nothing worse than losing one’s dignity.
Vlad’s guys and I head a body, heavily armed, well versed in killing but not so much, dying. There’s nothing worse than losing one’s dignity. And so we separated them, from their dignity.
Vlad’s guys and I head a body with countless arms and half as many brain-washed minds. Minds by the state disabled, that don’t naturally evolve. Minds saddled with, artificial, identities.