While alive and well and living in Schwenksville,...

While alive and well and living in Schwenksville,...
and after a small number of brushes with the grim reaper, I'm somebody deathly afraid of dying, thus yours truly embarks on an undertaking whereat a mortician (and his/her skeleton crew) can set the record straight before these lovely bones of mine (become freshly deceased and ready to be packed among the grateful dead) and spirit of thyself hopefully amazingly gratefully into the Elysian Fields (despite mine dirty deeds done dirt cheap searching for an unadulterated sugar momma) to serve as a divine guiding light while the world turns.
Let me clarify and profess to my culpability courting the Pale Horseman whose name is Thanatos during a severe emotional collapse as alluded to in a previous poem, when this not ready for prime time piano player experienced a blistering, debilitating, and psychologically fracturing self analogous to that dreaded and infamous Microsoft cryptic output, The "Abort, Retry, Fail?" (or Ignore) message considered a critical error prompt in MS-DOS, typically appearing when the system couldn't read/write to a drive (like a floppy or hard drive) due to a missing disk, drive door open, or hardware issue.
I abetted that cloaked figure casually swinging the scythe with additional names that mean or are closely associated with "death bringer," destruction, or the personification of death include Thanatos (Greek death personification), Azrael (angel of death), Persephone (bringer of destruction/Queen of Underworld), and Ankou (servant of death in Breton folklore). Other options include Mortis (Latin for death), Balor (deadly one), and Chernobog (black god).
Nevertheless, yours truly cannot escape the haunting sense and sensibility that some malevolent (unseen nor unheard) force stalks me twenty four seven, eight days a week and three hundred and sixty five (six during leap year) days a year shadowing me as if testing the waters linkedin to my sixth sense as if waiting for an opportune moment poised to strike with one hundred percent accuracy, which ominous intimations of mine will be proven right on target unbeknownst to others that there lurks an evil spirit, and despite the omnipresent unprovable presumption of said hidden force not to be reckoned with, I try my darnedest to live life as if no intuitive threat harbors ill will towards a harmless sexagenarian.
I guess one could say that a small medium at large sucks the air out of my immediate realm, and can anticipate every future move that yours truly carriers out even before the future materializes fomenting a strong suspicion within some (say fifth) dimension of the space/time continuum the axe will fall before the realization manifests itself said incubus (male) as opposed to succubus (female) mythological demons will seduce sleeper (the writer of these words) temporarily remains at bay, but at some unnamed time and place ouija board or "talking board,", which supposed game design anyone curious about communicating with spirits, exploring the occult, or engaging in a popular parlor game, but purportedly in reality to drain their energy or engage in sexual intercourse. Originating in medieval folklore, they invade dreams to tempt victims. An incubus targets women, while a succubus targets men.
So...I try to go about my business of documenting emotions, ideas, thoughts, et cetera for the sheer pleasure of applying passion for the spoken and written word and find myself creeped out when some specific phenomena occurs matching said notion as if this invisible incarnation merely thrives for the moment to validate and vicariously poking the subconscious of mine to remind me never to forget that danger hovers only a breath away, maybe simply thriving on adverse uneasiness encasing these lovely bones with absolute zero intention to present him/herself to me particularly when the sandman does cometh a mythical figure in Northern European folklore who brings good dreams and sleep by sprinkling enchanted sand into children's eyes, yet I firmly believe "things that go bump in the night," which refers to unexplained, unsettling noises heard at night, often imagined as ghosts, monsters, or supernatural beings. Originating from a British prayer against "ghoulies and ghosties," it describes irrational fears or creepy, mysterious occurrences that disrupt sleep and cause panic.
Generally, one would call me a skeptic, especially as pertains to the notion of some divine omniscient force not only being prescient, but also any series of unfortunate events that would befall this doubting thomas no just for the morrow, but for the remaining numbered days, weeks, months, et cetera of my existence.
Essentially, I feel analogous
to a wanted man dead or alive
buzz-feeding courtesy an itty bitty
teensy weensy proboscis
extracting nectar while viz hitting a beehive
an apiary maintained by a mister
and his queen named Beatrice,
standing out sporting a B52 hairstyle,
the former and latter
who share the surname Clive
historically a topographic cognomen
(the name used
to identify the members of a family
(as distinguished from
each member's given name)
living near a steep bank,
it now represents a traditional,
often upper-crust, English first name
envied by the majority
who did serve as the hard-drive
sustaining the economy - way before
a standard shift such as nine to five
implemented, but after
countless employees demands
at long last acquiesced,
a more reasonable work schedule did jive
with Thorstein Veblen detailing
The Theory of the Leisure Class (1899),
nevertheless argues that modern society
stratified by status rather than merit,
with the wealthy upper class
defining itself through
"conspicuous consumption"
and "conspicuous leisure"
where said storied author
posits that this class engages
in unproductive activities—
such as consuming luxury goods,
sports, or high culture—
to publicly demonstrate wealth
and gain social esteem
keeping the laboring class
scrambling for figurative crumbs to survive.
Despite society rife
and rich with treasure trove of material
one could not even dream up
though barely familiar to me
superficially akin to my intimation
envisioning an updated
twenty first school of scandal
(as imagined not by
Richard Brinsley Sheridan where he
explores themes of gossip
and social reputation
within the context
of 18th-century English society)
but what titled play
would look like today
strictly my opinion,
where rumor mongers compete
and flourish regarding
socialites blithe and gleeful
pleasure to manhandle
supposed refined behavior of
character assassinating with ribald deft
offering countless opportunities for
artists being humorously creative
showcasing high society
being zapped, lampooned,
and exaggerated where caricature
artists casually showcase,
mastermind, and castigate
those privileged simply by rite of birth
entitled courtesy birthright
perfect grist for the mill
videlicet comedy of manners
and as a sentimental comedy
as if one would playfully dandle
and nonchalantly toss a baby ala sackcloth.