Is the urge for suicide,
Truly an illness?

When science will enable us,
To live for millennia,
Won’t we all yearn for suicide?*

Must we outlive every extension,
Afforded by technological intervention?

Isn’t the transition to death,
A justifiably attractive journey?

Aren’t we all occasionally curious,
As to what lies beyond?

Can we be sure,
That this layer of life,
Is not the one great glitch of creation?

Can we be sure,
That we’re not all unwell,
For willingly staying in this hell?

Can we be sure,
That life isn’t just a test,
To see who’ll have the balls to take it?

Can you truly look me in the eye
And call my death-wish ‘illness’?

_{*This may actually be the key to understanding many Bible-lovers’ hatred of science, since their prohibition against euthanasia and suicide will force them to ‘endure’ every life-extension afforded by science. And life, for many of them, is already too long…}

‘What are you Sir Po?
Are you a rebel?
Are you a poet?
Are you a philosopher?
Are you an artist?
Are you a revolutionary?
Are you a punk?
Are you a pervert?
Are you a mystic?
Are you a monk?
Are you a visionary?
Are you a genius?
Are you generous?
Are you a savior?
Are you a martyr?’

‘Yes.’

‘What aren’t you, then?’

‘I’m not a coward.
I’m not a traditionalist.
I’m not cruel.
I’m not a Masochist.
I’m not a believer.
I’m not a Prophet.
I’m not shallow.
I’m not a businessman.
I’m not human.
I’m not supernatural.
I’m not an alien.
I’m not an entertainer.
(Although I am entertaining.)
I’m not a gangster.
I’m not violent.
(Although I do defend myself violently.)
I’m not dead.
I’m not immortal.
(Although my work will enjoy immortality.)
I’m not arrogant.
I’m not humble.
I’m not flattering.
(Although I can be charming.)
I’m not destructive.
(Although I do destroy barriers.)
I’m not beautiful.
(Although I am desirable.)
And,
As you can now tell,
I’m neither confused,
Nor shy.

There are commentators.

There are instigators.

There are inspirers.

And then there are surgeons,

Who take the initiative,

To cut open,

And fiddle,

With the core wiring…

A very dangerous pursuit indeed!

In that sense,

You can call me Dr. Po.

I’m not monotheistic,
Or monogamous,
But I’m definitely a mono-fucker.

One fuck and Sayonara!

Standing alone,
Ahead of my time,
Scanning the plateau…

New wonders,
And horrors,
Waiting to be reached,
By the slightly slower masses…

Fortunate in their numbers,
In their company,
In their mass plushy safety nets…

I smell ungrown flowers,
And pluck and date them,
As proof for those who are in doubt still…

It isn’t particularly heavenly,
The future, that is…

And traveling alone out front,
Is not particularly enviable…

But we choose not our pace,
Race,
Time,
Nor death-crime…

Whether I’m a flower,
That’s gonna blossom and wither,
Or a star that’s gonna shine and fade,
Or a storm that’s gonna frighten and leave,
Or a second sun to give warmth in the night,
Makes absolutely no difference to me.
It is totally up to Sly Fate’s discretion.

There’s a feeling of mediocrity,
And perhaps inferiority,
Gnawing at the core of the majority.

But I’m of the minority,
Blessed with superiority.
And for that I’m not too sorrity.

I have the key to your orgasms,
Right here between my legs!

Whatcha gonna do for it?

Of course you can rub yourselves off,
Dildo yourselves off,
Tongue each other off,
Finger each other off,
To one,
Or two degrees…

But I have the key,
Of highest pedigree,
To unlock you entirely,
And pop you into
Unimaginable spheres,
Of unbearable ecstasy…

So whatcha you gonna do for it?

Whatcha offering,
My sweet, locked ladies?

All you lovers out there!

When you fuck,
There are times to chill,
And please your lover,
With whatever it needs.

But then there are times,
To indulge to the max,
Using whatever your lover has to offer,
And letting it feast its eyes,
On your enraptured cuming self.

P.S. That was a nice little example of paying Ovid forward for his seduction instructions…