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The Infant

Nothing more melancholy than maniacal laughter.
How alone the mad scientist is in his castle.
That ineluctable thing we’re chasing after
makes each of us an absurdly random apostle.

But we begin as puke machines, seeking
nothing, not even our sustenance, mewling
because some idiot brought us into this reeking,
not wanting to be the fuel in life’s refueling.

Now with decades on our faces, a nested-mouth
and slime-producing creature is stalking us
from the vents, so it’s probably best we separate.
Inquiring into this colander plot is uncouth.
Better to master substance intake, walking
alone, a scalpel and a mirror to operate.
Posted 03/18/13
Part of a sequence of sonnets whose titles are taken from Shakespeare's Seven Ages of Man.
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