The shortest distance between two points in space and time is up a worm's *** .

A moth goes to see the foot doctor
He just flew right in.

Chiropodist said
What can do for you?
My winged friend
You know you're looking  pretty blue
What could I do for you?

Moth said
Doc I don't know where to begin
My life is framed by cowardice
Shame and sin
I lost my wife this year
She succumbed to an illness that she kept
Hidden from me
Right till the end
My daughter won't even look at me
She says I lack
All integrity
And I see cowardice in my sons eyes
It's the same I see
Staring back from the mirror to me
Every morn
And then I go to my job
I work for robots and I'm governed
By ghouls
I'm one of many millions
Of credulous fools
I keep loaded gun
Cocked and ready
On my bedside table
Should I
Develop the *****
In short doc
My life is a swirling toilet
That refuses to flush

**** me!
The chiropodist said
My friend you are clearly in need
Of psychiatric help
But you must know
I'm not qualified
To prescribe
The medicine
And therapy
You need to survive
So tell my moribund friend
Why did you come here
To consult
With a doctor of feet?

The moth said
Because your light was on.

Tilly licks her lips,when the vinegar hits the chips.
Don't you know? Now,
she does back flips.
She'll walk by your side
If you have some scampi fries
or perchance , a Cheesey moment,
when it comes to food
She'll brook no opponent,
Were I to die
She'd eat my components.

It's all on her terms,
She don't need you or no one else,
She has herself,
But what's that in your hand?
Could it be something she might understand
To be human food?
Always in that mood,
She will not be misconstrued.

All great creative storytellers know,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells,
The time machine was built so long ago

Expression chassis, tonal power cells,
The primary engine, sending us with word,
As you do, Adams, Asimov, and Wells

The second engine, flashback, and a third
—portend, exhausts each piston-fired clue,
The primary engine, sending us with word

The epoch steering, future or review,
Remember back, or forward fantasy
Portend exhausts each piston-fired clue

Captain Imagine, Wingman Memory,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,
Remember back, or forward fantasy

Like Atwood, Pratchett, Liu, and Philip K,
All great creative storytellers know,
With engines run on image, tone, and phrase,  
The time machine was built so long ago

With faith in our souls
We skip toward the light
Singing blithley together
Songs of truth and joy
And *****

To left stand the illiberal
To the right the funny men
Both will badger
And deride you
Herd you to their
Favoured pen

And them that have no eyes
Will ask why you seem so shook
And you will have to explain yourself
To a dog shown a card trick look.

The old poets haunt me
they taunt me from the shadows
following every keystroke I type -
they’re critical of phrases,
they demand narrower themes
and mock the very clichés they invented.

I remind these frightful spirits of how tenuous
life was, how I’m blindly living these experiences,
how prevalent desire is, how human it is to chase
the things we’re told will fulfill us, like goals and love.

I try and explain this Internet thing,
how the more copious my writings,
the more people it says are following me.
How I really don’t want to sound paranoid
but as hard as I try - I don’t see anyone.
.
.
Song for this:
Too Much Time On My Hands by Styx
Reelin' In The Years by Steely Dan

while the world is turning there is a small hope to always return home