Hide from the cursed day!
Let all of creation eat its own face in shame!
This stubborn stain blights us, one and all
– oh humanity! Will you ever find a hairstyle that doesn’t make you look like you’re one stamp away from a free chai latte?
And if Men’s Health declared that
the consumption of one’s own bath water was the key
to tighter glutes would you rush to embrace that Rosé-tinted dawning
of epitimous brain death?

Lest we forget, the signs hang from every rough-hewn surface. They beseech in such definitives
; irrefutable, immutable, as if language herself would deem to pass such proclamations!
Such limitation!
Nay! Before the end credits roll
and this unconscious plague becomes finally known
you would surely question this instience that any resemblance to those
living or dead
is purely coincidental?
What is still fed into this twilight of cognition on which is written
no longer hopes and dreams but residual images of pure distraction unlinked from even the most remedial of comprehensions may still provide salvation.
If only. I know too well your Meyer-briggs indicators
; some
extraversion-feeling-judging
barely sensing twisted flesh and bone and metal wreck of a passing shadow.
Oh, you’ll be there when the streets run red with our own waste chemicals
and i’m sure you’ll mutter and tut as they seep into the water table
and share your disgust across those ‘spheres you hold so dear
if only because they remind you of what you once thought was the best of yourself
but bore really as much resemblance to your ‘self as those vegan converse allstars
covering your crooked feet.

Cast your eyes for once away from that shallow depth of field periphery inside which your every gesture is forever limited and perhaps for once you’ll understand and not just see but frankly I ain’t holding my breath, baby.

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