Thoughts on a hostile evening

Hostile towards benign happiness, the Rutherford Rothchilds, nefarious Others, delirious dilettantes within the frozen shell-shocked sanctity mirrored only by a false-hearted antiquity whereby all heroines face tragic designs upon their imagery of persona, a nebulous False Face Society bound by fraud & misdemeanors, mandated from above while beyond, a calculated nothingness waits, patiently nihilist-loving stalwarts of the absurdist's version of surreal surrenders & ancient history. Conundrums of cowardice we all play our hands at, caustically measuring the comparative weights of significance & regret, the starlight & the lake's laying reflections from the crater-scarred surface of our one and only Moon.

The narrative, ongoing:
Venus & Mercury are still lovers; Jupiter carries a mistress almost the size of this earth, a polygamous arrangement; that asteroid belt forming ring around the rosies, a gated community that downgraded Pluto, segregated
Mercury-Venus-earth & mars;
Then, placed a
Chastity Belt
between us-
Jupiter Saturn Uranus Neptune & the planet-formerly-known-as-Pluto, reclassified due to an oval orbit combined with the perhaps less powerful ingredients of
ice & rock snowball [habeous writ] whereas all others from said planetary plane share common goals & thusly, properties--made of metal, dirt, flowing water (they say only in the summer on Mars) or raining a sulphuric acid mist on one side, then across the great divide, gaseous anomalies who body block asteroids the size of Europe, on the other side of farthest away.
Our telescopes are now
reading the Suns, to detect what's revolving around that fiery ball of nuclear reaction to see if they're (the grand & loyal-to-no one 'they')
anything
like us.
400 newly found, resemble ours. Choice of Orange, red, or blue suns. Take your pick.
No neutral colors. Until a black hole.
I think that was the eons, the wind reverb, outside the city
On a cold last day of
February.

-Notes on Bukowski in my studio about a block from his favorite bar, where elbow marks seem worn into the wood.