Men’s main use of their tongues is to gossip (though it be done under diversionary names such as: political discussion, religious debate, historical surveys, et al)
but it’s all the same  –  gossip.
 
 

Just as sex is the hobby of the poor, art of the nouveau riche,
and talk, that of the pseudo intelligentsia,
so is the great I Can’t Talk About It  to the few.
 
 

As soon as he arose each morn to face another unknown day in the
chancy game of life, one man (with the innocent hope of children & born gamblers)
falls to his knees and prays: “Dear Divine One: I am a high roller and new in town:
comp me Lord, come on  – comp me.”
    (“Damn’f that's not what we all need!”)
 
 

Taking a flattering position by the park’s reflecting pond
a chap clutching a dainty manuscript stood and began to read aloud therefrom:
“Just as the moron derives his light from the sun...I’m sorry, that should have said:
just as the moon...hum...well –  now it doesn’t make any sense at all  –  forget it!”
  And the warden announced that everyone should note on their religious, political,
  and philosophical calendars that beginning next month,
  only those prisoners will be allowed to convert who are already verted.
    And instead of combustible liquids, the creatures on one world propel their
    air borne machinery with unexpected twists of various verbiage.
      And another guy said that in the ongoing inner tussle between his wonderfulness,
      and his humbleness  –   he didn’t want to get involved.
 
 

Another unstated prison policy is:
“Keep ‘em sad  –   keep ‘em serious  –  keep ‘em stupid.”
 
 

At the conclusion of yet another barbarous campaign, the savage legion
set up a celebratory tent wherein later that night, well into the riotous festivities,
their dreaded leader stood, raised a bloody cup and pronounced a toast:
“To all the cities great and small that we plundered and destroyed,
and to all the people we raped, maimed and butchered  –  to them we say:
Thank you for inviting us into your homes.”
 
 

If you can learn to see the thinking that automatically appears in your brain as:
Take it or leave it  –  you can eventually learn to leave it.
Life doesn’t really care if you are seen to be in prison or not  –
just as long as prison is in you.
 
 

One fellow encourages others to believe in conspiracy theories
because he doesn’t, but is fascinated by the fact that they would explain all the things he can’t understand.
   (And not to alarm unrepentant sissies) but there is a man whose hobby is
    thinking up synonyms for words that don’t exist.
    There, there!  –  calm down: everything’s all right:
    on a dark night it’s hard to tell if it’s the horses or the corral making all the ruckus.
    You're right: too bad.
        Some fear the ship  –   some its presumed cargo.
        “Hey! –  has anybody seen that nervous-system-rebel?
          Has he jumped ship again?”
 
 

Hi Ho! –  The Wordage-O.
Once you put a name on it,
you can lay the blame on it.
 
 

The Secret Side Of Solemnity.
There is a humorous kind of seriousness known only to the certain man.
 
 

A certain man who’d spent a life of thinking, writing and engaging in
pleasurable conversation, laid down on what he labeled his:
Phoenix Bed Of Death & Revision, and made the following declaration to himself: “Aside from the fact that I could not have achieved my goal without doing so:
I talk too much.”
 
 

There is a curious sort of instruction within stupidity known only to the real-deal-man.
 
 

To move problems into a manageable position:
force ‘em to match up with solutions you already have.
(Put in a musical context): If you are going to sleep through life --
at least snore in a key that’s good for you.
 
 

A mischievous math maven maintained to a mostly immature mob:
“Only the young believe in love,” and one adolescent snipper-whapper retorted:
    “But isn’t it only the young who need  love,”
to which the dotty digit dodger responded:
“Maybe –  but anyone old enough to make that observation is beyond its validity.
(Comp me life!” he cried in ersatz ecstasy, “comp me.”)
 
 

Rebel diners never argue over the menu, nor the brevity of the meal --
while at city tables nothing but such wrangling is heard.
 
 

The routine intellectual world of man is like a jungle gym
with monkey bars covered in Crazy Glue.
(Ah what fun to swing back and forth while pretending you can let go at any time.)
 
 

A man is not a true rebel unless he can order his self  about  –
with no apparent justification.
(Hey you!  –   yeah you!  –   stand over there!
Why?  –  because I said so  –   that’s why.
    “Sounds nice  –   too bad it’s not possible.”
You’re right: too bad.)
 
 

The ultimate result of stability as practiced in the city is rigor mortis.
Ruminated the warden: “Still prisoners are good  prisoners.”
    Well, they’re damn sure predictable.
“Same thing.”
 
 

Cripples will remain content as long as mirrors are one legged.
Cockeyed Corollary.
All institutions and other forms of collective thinking are gimpy.