Game of Errors

pairings are of equals
in a perfectly level society
all share in the labor
each to its ability
harvest and production
are as encouraged
as art and philosophy
the motto:
“every member builds to the least”
is a crude translation
especially the part “to the least”
to consider any piece of the whole
as lesser than any other
is both destructive and absurd
it would be like a human
choosing between heart and lungs
which is the greater

life is not idyllic
there is disease and infirmity
crippling disability and depression
they aren’t machines after all
where there is intelligence
there is suffering
especially
in every seventh season
when the combiners come
down from the hill they stealthily stalk
together they study and discuss
inside the nutrient rich think tank
where they probe their prey
their strengths and weaknesses
their best natures and their worsts
satisfied with their joint conclusions
propaganda is spun and propelled out
on deviously flicking tongues
when it all goes well
as the combiners’ history claims it will
pairings separate in caustic paroxysm
discontent divides the once unanimous order
public squabbles erupt
producers lambast the arts as useless
philosophers tout the mental disciplines
over base muscular pursuits
soon, all is unruly rudeness
nasty jests and vile barbs
aimed to infuriate rather than further debate
into this total mess the combiners now come
the groundwork to establish their nest complete
the seek out the angriest and most desperate
and tell them how they
are the only hard workers
how the other members fail them
do not live up to their duty
and joyously engage in perverse acts
behind their backs
such a sweet schism, firmly cemented
us against them perfection
ripens the hour of biological need
those members who cooperate, they reward
selected for combination
in the hope that those obsequious traits
pass onto future generations

oily from within the appendage doth disjoint
accordioning outward
sensile secretions zero in for the sting
mate in the cross-hairs
it thrusts, it penetrates
collects its seminal sample
and withdraws to the shakerage hold
where the mix is vigorously made
a new animal one day to be
combiners have chosen their selectors
as the incubators
finally aware of their lot
run for the hills
whence the combiners came
pursued into their highland holes
the incubators cornered
achieve their destiny
as the combiners articulated injector
blasts the blastocyst home
to stew, develop, ferment
come complete to fruition
and finally burst free
after devouring their generous host
that foolish bleeding heart giver
an idiot to sacrifice itself
on the alter of caring and kindness
the offspring once sprung
joins the survivors
its fate wide open
to pair and participate harmoniously as it will
until
seven seasons more may pass
and again come combiners to divide
and combine and find
for future generations
generous gestators and so on
it will go
but what their science doesn’t know
in the DNA exists a small hiccup
a shadow of the ghost of the incubator’s will
passes over the growing embryo
stains it subtly, ever so
just a touch
a lover’s gentle brush
raising goose bumps
raising consciousness
raising a germ, hidden,
through time, to multiply,
load the genome
and explode

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