Bah! More blasted self-pity I hate it and abhor it but have enough time to dip my knees and wallow in it from time to time, Might as well do it myself seeing as no one else can rightly spare a damn to.
Well at least this melancholy motivates me enough to write some words. Slowly stoking fires of resentment until I can batter out my scorn hammering my hate upon anger's anvil dark dreadful feels to herald imperious irritation, enough to slash at my saddened soul
My mind wanders and I am making love to a cheeky smile. All wrapped up in a silken daydream, before reality rudely crashes back in and back to scrabbling to keep up with the noisesome news while wasting away on the same spot, but all I want is to be held.
I sit watching the world whip by with death's hand on my shoulder moving closer each day to empty oblivion, but having someone sit with me maybe even straddle me, will make the hand hover if only for a moment.
Even better if while our lips entwine they defy death's stare, their passion buying me some time to complete them.
The older I get, in age and wisdom, the more I appreciate administration and bureaucracy, because such systems at the end of the day are post-it notes on a black hole's rim: that don't give a damn who or what you are and will never hold it against you as they fight information, not humanity.
Bureaucratic Lives Don't Matter Because; To Bureaucracy Any And All Life Is Not An Issue. Its all about death and taxes so life is not assessed or charged.
They are attempts to bring order to chaos that defies madness...
You keep your household in, you let critical workers go out, You put the shielding in, you let the holidayers go out, Shake the guidance all about once more; Lax attitude! Lax attitude! We all fall down; never to rise again? Stay inside until the wolf has huffed and puffed and this has all blown over.
We no longer know of magic. We whose lives are unseasoned; No longer kith or kin To salt and pepper Or grease and fat Or sugar and caffeine.
We who have cast out all poisons and addictions, Left with hollow unflavoured lives. The chicken is no longer roasted Itís blood is not spilt and itís bones no longer thrown into soup Or cast to scry our fates.
All effigies are false affronts And statues viewed with sanitised hearts Our circles secular, secluded from superstition and sensing. The mad god...