.. hope is a nihil promise of a future..

... your future self is.. some one else..

... you want to remain her... you want to remain here...

...the future is an empty hope..

...an empty home..

...There is no one in the room of the future..

...a space between planets..

...Doctor Dooms solitude..

...the future is an empty home..

....There is no one else..

... The future is over...

.. . a cardboard box

Obama

Pain

nothing but pain

Returning to pain as if it is a home

as if it were one of your familiers

a fellowship of familiars of a ring

the Presidential ring

President of Mordor

Wonder Woman was President of Mordor

a golden ring which is a binding torture lasso

the torture golden lasso which binds Wonder Woman to an infinity nauseum of voice holograms

Villain

Wonder Woman is a Villain

The lasso binds her as a prison house

A prison house whose lightest word harrows up her soul

her soul-seizure

her convulsions

her epileptic fits

her tourettes syndrome

speaking obscenities

obscene calls words of voice holograms

obscene lasso words of voice holograms

her lasso is an obscene call

She has a prison voice

Obama's voice

vioce

vicse

vice

vise

her voice is vise clasping her soul

in vice

a steel trap a metal trap of a mind

Saruman's mind

Wonder Woman is Saruman

She has a bound mind of metal

An OCD demon circuit lasso mind

her soul is caught in a demon lasso

a demon mobius circuit

mobious

an infinity symbol of hell

Hell

Perhaps the murder of Maxwell Lord was merely a holograms

Demon circuit of Mordor

Nu-Diana Nu-52 Diana

her soul, her consciousness to put it clinically... cynically? .. or Or clinically..was a storm of petty

petty passions made grand in sick sweep of sensuality

her swarming soul was seasick

was she deep because she saw holocaust?

Did she see herself as whispy ghostly grey holocaust victim when she was in Tartarus with Hermes?

Was she a Dostoevsky?

Could she take pride in the sweep of petty to grand

good pride? Or bad pride?

Dostoevsky-grand

sweep of petty to grand

Could she take pride in this sweep of petty to granj

Could she take pride like Dostoevsky in being a naked triglodyte

in feeling herself a bug, a grand bug, a cockroach

with a burning blood inside her veins instead of milk

even if the blood was pitch

a needle in her burning blood

black as pitch

whereto it goes

Her blood was Hamlet's savage refusal

his sensuous savageness

feeling the tip of his knife with his tongue

his lips

her blood his lips

her lips

her ruby lips

her lips on her blood

drawing it from a soulless wound on her arm