The three champion alchemical congruency of thought, as shall be achieved when a Space Lab Crew waves to us from orbit and we wave back, to outer space.

What follows is history past and present and the prophesy in poetry of a dimwitted, Arthur Everman. It petitions ye to seek, alternative facts, and answers.

Why pen history poetically? Though harder to compose than prose, it is far more elegantly emotive than anyone may ever aspire to compose, prosaically.

Art imagines that of all the earthly forms of written expression most like heavenly hymns, between chapter and verse ’tis verse that’s most favored by Him.

Imagine that when on 12-21-12, nothing galactically cosmic apparently happened, authors Art, Don and Jong, surreal cyber brothers, went atwitter, together.

Imagine as well, that while Kim Jong-un and ‘Donald Drumpf’ know of the third, the third, Art, knows them well. He knows they are too fond, of their words.

Not hard to imagine; the three, do indeed, tweet on twitter; but the two brighter brothers’ world view isn’t as prescient as that of their dimwit, third brother.

Imagine too, that words, the most wondrous units ever to be conjured by the minds of men surreally may be used by man to make real our aspirations, human.

Imagine then Victorian soirees spent in dreamy reveries with history’s visionaries, nightly connecting; eating, drinking and crafting, their epigrammatic poetry.

In reveries dreamy and at soirees, Victorian, history’s philosophers, poets, and luminaries, with the megalomaniacs Kim Jong un, the Don and Art, nightly meet.

To wit Kim now tweets albeit vicariously, to such world leaders as Xi Jinping and Vlad Putin with like-minded, reactionary others, looking on, in rapt, anticipation.

Across Earth, Kim’s brother Donny, near incredibly, is now the President of US. He fancies himself, next to the Bible’s authors, the best-selling author in history.

Never mind that ‘The Art of the Deal’ was a book, actually written, by a ghost, really living, in anonymity; a surreal legal fiction, that most earthly, ghostwriting.

Now, it happened that Penemue (a Watcher Angel, fallen), for his God-damned salvation’s sake, googled for weaklings and proposed, for them, their salvations.

He googled too for great poets to write in collaboration with the megalomaniacal brothers, to the children of the nations, of a plentiful algorithm, on Twitter.

“Tweet blog and pen algorithmically,” said Penemue to the brothers three. “Alchemically, turn tweets to epigrams to transformational, BUT pacific, poetry.”

“Tweet blog and pen algorithmically, alchemical, poetry,” had commissioned The Watcher Penemue to the three decidedly, megalomaniacal brothers.”

“Tweet blog and pen, Kim Don and Art, in the ‘twitterese’that I, Penemue … The Watcher, taught ye; an Esperanto-like hope, an Esperanto-like prayer.”

So 3 brothers write on 3 levels; 140 character epigrammatic tweets metamorphose into 980 character blogs, into a compendium; a poor man’s, publicity.

Twitterese came easiest to Art. Administration came easiest to Kim. Spelling was Donny’s forte. Penemue organized his Liberation Force, accordingly.

To  attend to national affairs of state, Kim and Don ceded to their weakling brother, Arthur the penning of epigrams. Kim sees to invites; Don to humor.

But enough for the moment, about us; for this is about the more generic ‘us’ i.e. humanity and less, publicity, for news hounds, Kim, and the Donny.

And now, London; and brother Kim, so previously unsure about whom to honor, the west’s Willy or the East’s Rumi now knew; it’d be, England’s best.

Thanks Penemue (hereinafter Pen). And thanks too to the poets and artists of the nations. We are gathered here regarding the very fate, of the nations.

Not that the fate of the cosmos and its non-earthling inhabitants isn’t important. It is and they are. But we’ll get to them later. First, the nation-lands.

Nations are the constructs by which men, in vain, attempt to govern themselves, a natural evolution from nuclear families, clans and tribes, aboriginal.

Pangaea now numbers 196 nations (not including Taiwan, and Puerto Rico), 4200 religions, and 6500 languages; verily, ye must evolve to a single nation.

English is but Mother Earth’s second lingua franca. Its rich vocabulary rhymes easily and easily feels at home in song, psalm, prose and of course, poetry.

English isn’t just for Englishmen, any more. But no one language can end all the babbling. English’s Twitter, Art is betting, may languages be, connecting.