A Prose of Collective Nouns

A yearning of yesterdays flutters in a candle melted together by a nostalgia of memories.

We received our hand of cards, suffered through a blush of embarrassments, fell prey to a great deal of used car salesmen, and jumped through a ho ho of loopholes. Yet, we still followed a strangle of bad laws because a faculty of academics who had read a compendium of books taught us to behave like an obedience of subordinates.

So, some of us became an impatience of wives; some became an unhappiness of husbands; some became a Rand of Objectivism; some became a dilemma of prisoners. A nerve of neighbours would whisper a dish of gossips. A delirium of debutants would reveal a pumphouse of egos. An ennui of haute bourgeoisie would turn into a gaggle of pill poppers. Some of us reluctantly joined an extinction of critical thinkers. Not enough of us for a calendar of saints. Perhaps, we were just a thicket of idiots, in the end.

We trusted an equivocation of politicians who appealed to a desperation of voters wanting a vane of direction but all we were left with was a kompromat of senators surrounded by a concert of yes men. And then this bunch of wankers and this wunch of bankers stole our vision of dreams and offered only a moan of lamentations while clenching a fistful of dollars. Can we, at least, admit we acquiesced to a talent of gamblers and a knuckle of gangsters?

A twinkling of todays is as transient as a soufflé of clouds.

We spend the day making sense by listening to a slant of journalists and a veneer of newscasters; paying attention to a pretension of intellects and a worship of writers; getting lost between the babel of words spoken by a quiver of geniuses. How many of us flip through a meaning of dictionaries and comb through a pitfall of fine print? How many of us seek the knowledge from a slumber of the old guard? How many of us avoid the firehose of information because we’re afraid of a shush of librarians?

No, we are not a furrowed brow of scholars, friends. We get transfixed by a twaddle of public speakers eschewing our knowing to a pomposity of professors and an ex cathedra of professors emeriti. We neglect our gut of instincts to pursue a litany of limitations imposed by a complex of psychologists. And we do it without a clutch of second thoughts.

And now, as a culture of viruses was said to come from a cauldron of bats, we have to rely on a sleuth of mama bears to sift through a jungle of nazis, avoid a borg of eugenicists, and locate a kolkhoz of commies because a shriek of claques, an erudition of editors, and a hush of censors won’t let a host of epidemiologists, a guess of diagnosticians, a helix of geneticists, a colony of microbiologists, a number of statisticians, an addition of mathematicians, a body of pathologists, a nucleus of physicists, and a sequitur of logicians speak. No one expects a congress of baboons to run a battery of tests holding responsible a pfuckery of Pfizer and a malarky of Moderna. Certainly no one expects the whored of presstitutes to jeopardize their splurge of sponsors. But some expect that listening to an example of experts will lead to staring at a slab of morticians as the truth gets erased by a page of wikipedians.

So a subtlety of designers line up a queue of actors and a parade of liars. An example of masters request a mixture of pharmacists and a cartel of pharmacologists to throw a luck of dice which sometimes lands on a wisdom of grandparents and sometimes on an abandonment of orphans and leaves a pathos of mourners in its wake. An altruism of philanthropaths create an industry of villains accompanied by a gush of sycophants who drown a persistence of parents who, in fact, are a better bevy of judges than this sling of psychopaths. A clutch of kleptomaniacs loot a kaleidoscope of currencies and hail the cult of moloch. Who let this continent of leviathans assume they are a Pantheon of gods?!? Someone, please, slip this reflection of narcissists a magic of mushrooms.

A promise of tomorrows is no more assured than a flamboyance of flamingoes and a snuggle of otters around a float of crocodiles.

And so it is left to a tabula rasa of empiricists and a conclusion of conspiracy theorists to refuse to become an obeisance of servants to a tyranny of dictators. There will be no league of superheroes. There will only be a suspicion of saviors, a decorum of deans, a disputation of lawyers, as a tide of critical mass turns. Followed by a parliament of beggars, a lying of pardoners, an amnesty of aparatchicks; a plague of rats jumping off the Titanic as a string of violinists play to a diminishing audience of listeners and a slithering lounge of lizards. Let’s not await for a persuasion of prophets. Let’s not create a nervousness of AIs. Let’s avoid becoming a lamentation of Morlocks, a vexation of zombies, a bank of automatons, a skynet of cyborgs… Let us return to enjoying ourselves as a consciousness of beings.

Just maybe the future can be left alone archived only by a confusion of philosophers and an iamb of poets.