Not Who You Think on Drums (a speculative poem in fractured cadence) Australia strikes the match— a peace plan unfurls like parchment in wind, inked with complaints of monopolies, German-Russian biotech empires spinning helixes into profit, while client states of madness file injunctions against the Head— not who you think on drums, but the one who syncopates sanity into market tears. Above, Mars bruises red with war, its dust choking the orbital ambitions of Earth-bound empires. Dominance dwindles— not with fire, but with questions: What is AI, if not a mechanical muse in procurement’s theater, where developers shake the tree and language falls like ripe fruit into competing hands? Palestinians, in quiet defiance, offer refuge—not to bodies, but to regeneration politics, a science exiled from post-WW2 corridors where terror once wore a bureaucrat’s tie. Now it returns, misunderstood, like jazz in a parliament, like prophecy in a spreadsheet. And somewher...