Self of the World
The self of the world incarnates
held by her flautist charms,
gripped by the heels, slapped on the feet
wrapped in a mother’s arms ;
now ‘ other ‘d , non existential -
never a moment’s doubt,
weaned on a past and future tense,
always the moment’s rout,
always the outward focus here
reigning down from the top,
turning us round and round again
until our pennies drop !
What need then, for magic mushrooms
under our mother sun ?
The flute plays on into the whole
'til the millions are one.
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