The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Infraharmonic Mutterances

The overgrown hermit hears not
the siren call of the phosphoric;
sips no validation from the polluted ponds of 
nextfuckinglevel memes unartistically rendered
from the fat of overconsumption and the 
agrandizement of the ego sitting upon
a mirage of offered thrones glistening as
Siri wishes she could hold back your hair
from the dyspepsia of perfumed toxins that
beckon the handmaids to bow before they ascend
and take the gilded molehill while hiding 
the movement of tasty spiders whose prey
levels up the sedation of their nictitating eyeballs.

Freedom is a mental construct 
waiting to ascend to the ontological 
forever the bridesmaid never the
antithesis of those rabidly garnering
the ability to conjure work over time
while offering a curation of smiles and
bonus avatars to bedazzle their FREE cubicle
in a fresh new weave of threaded unobtainia
no worries, you can always unsubscribe
and sit alone on your tuffet 
eating your turds and dismay
ever to miss out and stew in utter envy
muttering to yourself:

Wachet auf, ruft uns die stimme!
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