Cracked ascendancy - a poem

Alan decided to to make eggs for breakfast.

It was a bold, ballsy, bithchin', badass, brash, and possibly even foolishly preposterous decision. 

Mostly because he didn't have any eggs. 

But in a lesser way, yet still slightly relevant way, also because: 

- He didn't have any money to buy eggs.

- Or a stove or any other cooking equipment to cook things on. 

- Or any idea what cooking equipment even was.

- Or any thumbs.

- Or any other hand parts.

- Or any wrists.

- Or any idea why he didn't have these parts.

- Or any ability for rational thought.

- Or any ability for fanciful thought. 

- Or thoughts about the nature and importance of ecosystems to maintain a harmonious, if not occasionally brutal, balance between all living things and their environments.

- Or any opinions on any of the currently most debated subjects in the news and pop-culture, including but not limited to, thoughts on social responsibility for social people to give back to societies, or even whether that new bridge should be built or not.

- Or a natural feel for body language and subtle facial hints.

- Or a grandiose philosophy of why when cream cheese sales rise the political landscape will often meet a simultaneous period of conflict. 

- Or any clarity to his recent conundrum in explaining to his curious child exactly why landscape painters are so focused on rural landscapes, even though urban landscapes are often closer physically to where their favorite multiplex cinemas are.

- Or any natural intuition into why accidental physical contact with a stranger can lead to sustained feelings of energy transference and mental fortress building.

- Or any hair bristling psychic revelations about how to create a new system of ascendancy that would eradicate all need for current stairs, escalators or even elevators! And this one really bothered him because he HATED stairs, escalators and elevators. They are so obsessed with minor changes in altitude, 'sometimes staying horizontally consistent is okay you dick!' He'd scream often. 

'Yep, if I had eggs, I'd totally make eggs right now' Alan thought. 

Then like a basket of trinkets, spilled over a bed of photos of broken tractor parts, rusted to the sounds of industrial music, reinterpreted as flute opera, a monkey climbed Alan and ate one of his kids.

It was a tough day to be a banana tree.