How Soon Is Now (from the shirt of the same name)

How soon is now?

How, the endless question of innards. The endless amalgam of everything has to be propelled by something in some worldly, measurable or qualitative way which gives us the desired results.By what means? In what way? To what extent or amount? In what condition? The manner of which things are done. how about? what do you feel about a certain thing? How do you do, endless seeker of answers now lost sunk, uncovered and forgotten as well as displayed in hidden sight? A full explanation of all things incorporated with living dying, ticking and all the hodgepodge minisculities of eternity which is our moment of existence convulse in an earth-rending epilepsy and throw us off its back like so many beady-eyed bloated gargantuan flies.

Soon, the answer will come o the seeker of all things unbidden and unhidden. In a short time of the not long after all the somatic somnambulists shall lie and wake, shattering the pillars of the society that has solidified from their incorporeal dreams of agony. We are everything they had hoped and feared we would be, a utopia in all its myopic glory. Willingly we give up our sophisms for the exruciating agony of the present, of the shuddering orgasm of the moment in which the climax is forever within a second's touch yet eternally remains unfulfilled. Soon is the edge, the brink before the sleep that follows dreams.

Is. To be. An island that remains unfulfilled for its fulmination remains to be, forever to be. It foregoes the moment to live for the future, the promise of what may come. Everything is postponed for the glory of tomorrow albiet today is in stagnancy. Is. To be the perfection found in tomorrow.

Now, the shuddering cataclysm that throws of everything in its path with the reckless abandon of a tiny fluttering butterfly hurricane. Forever it remains yet constantly changing, never has any human being known any time besides the immediateness of now. At the time which one is reading, living, speaking, dreaming, the span of everything you knew and will ever know. The same moment for Alexander the Great and someobscure poet living in the urban seascape of now. Immediately it senses a rift, this sentinent being of the moment grows uneasy with its role and flutters, spasms as the Requiem plays in its multi-faceted quarters, rebounding by it's own walls, it shudders in its throes and shatters its cage from the bindings of If. Now the beast is rampant, erratic and fluid-like.

HOWSOONISNOW? The echoing ruin of all the fast-paced netboys linking their servers up to the speedy interconned network of supercomputers forming a slipshod highway of dreams gilded by the promises of tomorrow. HOWSOONISNOW? As the heart beats sporadically by and by whenever lovers share their carresses with the living soul of the mass of mortality plaguing this earth. HOWSOONISNOW? Comes from the raspy throat of one in anguish, forever barred from society because of the deformed blobs of flaking dried lesions on his flesh. HOWSOONISNOW? The eternal wait of the worshippers of Chance, waiting eagerly for the chance to be one of the ostentatious people promised by the gilded superhighway built in a slipshod manner overloading mysensesthishasgottostop...How soon is now?

The moment has passed me by yet another steps up to take its place. This is my question, the question of one tired of waiting for life's promises to come true...