ROLLEX EUROPA In biocentric worlds no sanctuary but death, cure-all of Man's excess with kings and lords, ladies and earls each in turn run out of breath chasing power to purge their stress at knaves and lumps, lassies and churls, born so poor they survive by stealth, invest some coin, export the mess on colonial company referrals of rabble in slow sailing craft, their bond-indentured duress a mere clash of religious morals that mark each lifelong path with artful games of sex and class those growing millions conquered the World, re-enacting imperial wrath upon the natives like pawns at chess who yearned to someday grow as virile empires by rabid commercial graft with financial verve and technical dash their hungry billions now overwhelm as migrant labor to markets adrift in the busy business of boom and crash that spark such an atomic quarrel human life could cease to exist next year for the price of gas, or methane suffocates everyone first up from seas of sludgy swirl and mountains of unrecycled trash. Thus in a predatory world, however rich and precious the gift, life will turn all to a toxic hash and summarize the great English bard, dead exit this bloody school yard in astral flight after the drama, death like birth a blessed trauma.

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