Where are we? (Split Eight and Certain)

[Certain]

SPLIT EIGHT
Symmetry abounds in the city street surroundings,
for now I live for me. Found between infinities, puddle-deep drowning ashore.
Loud for me is sound asleep, subtlety is a crowning mountain gorge.
I hear you crumbling as you called. My rearview is all fogged,
Crawled towards the backseat- before the crashing of orchestrated
aural cavity reports, catch these sharply aborted faces..
before their spirits will live on.
Mortally, fractally, distorted.
"I'm sure we'll make it." Actually or not.
It's more here, less it's gone.
its basic anatomy- inadequately recorded.
There's no meaning to court from de facto importance.
There's no fleeing the glimpse, manic photo rewardance.
Homo Too Sapiens, beating the spineless chimps
as glowing new radium displays (chromed cesium Timexes)
read a quarter toll, pay it forth, since each little change
is too late to delay. What time is it? Late. Sleep it away.
As a whole, the notion is violence-less,
but in its environement nature is as nature decides it is-
-I'm a man of many a modicum of non-inclinations.
Bad erotica finder comma odd fascinations, buyer-product of conglomeration,
Gattaca, monocoque carbon, fiber-optic exoneration.
Nice to be sad as-salamu alaykum. We all fall prey to our east.
And the night is silent enough. ZzzQuil, my voicemail has finally peaked.
So. Peaceful. These finer points... point to nil.
Still. To each.
Enlightenment has lightened up, gotten more hospitable
for all of u (sic) patience. Multi-omnivore autonomization.
Decay and degrade. The sign of things to come, riding the waves in,
Dry off your paws as you sink em in for any drops spilled in the basin.

CERTAIN
Apostle of complacence whose appositives are baseless.
After swallowing my patience, I'm Doctor Octagon stomping on blue flowers.
Give me OxyContin vapors for my nostrils as they bleed
into my obviously absorbent polycotton T-shirt.
I'm a Watchman with superpowers,
and my Target is the big box.
Harnessing the madness of touchscreen apolocalyptic Kid Rock
leaking through the asbestos into hardly guarded wigwams.
I'll take an orange soda-gin, mom. Mix it in my favorite cup
and add the tar and cocaine in while I sliver off to play with guns.
This emaciated vagrant knows breakfast ends at 10:30,
and lunch usually doesn't happen at all.
Slow drip. Sodium Pentothal. "I had the loneliest pedagogue.
She'd expose me to metacogs and hold me while getting off,
but I wasn't fucked until now."
The valium's in the fridge. The Magnum's in the cabinet.
The Trojan's stealing information from data on your tablet.
Saturn's rings are masking the lack of happiness in space
because we all know those fucking aliens are catalysts of rape.
She's a destroyer, like in Battleship the game,
with three holes to stick your peg in, and no passable escape.
But we're all aftermarket slaves, asking for a wage with no passion for the day.
And we can't exploit the rapture if we're captive to our pain.
So let's act as though we're brave instead of cuddling our sorrows.
Because the sun might not rise on one of these tomorrows.