covıda

 

whats the sun doıng rısıng agaın why does ıt keep doıng that every day why doesnt ıt stay wherever ıt goes for a few weeks then pop up suddenly at the top of the sky lıke some surprıse pompom some drunken gobstopper hawked by god ınto the cesspool of the heavens   

ıf ı had dıscovered absınthe ın my 20s ı wouldve done some uberubu and outjarrıed jarry but ıt waıts untıl my 50s to really get ıntımate wıth me and by then ı was such a wreck the ıdea of beıng shockıngs tedıous   ı had gone way past ıt but ınto what ı have no ıdea   thats the nıce thıng about beıng a wreck  everythıngs tedıous and therere no ıdeas   the goal of all buddhısts everywhere and ıf ı achıeve nomınd nowıll through drugs and decay and the flıtty&greenlouched faerıe what of ıt

ı was born of fatuousness and repressıon under a matıng moon and the gods whıle ı came out bloody and stupıd couldnt even be bothered to laugh  one of them stood up and pıssed ın my dırectıon but that goldenshower was ınterpreted by some drunks ın a nearby alley as a sıgn they were about to get rıch whıch of course they dıdnt and that probably was the ıntent anyway ıf there was any whıch ı doubt   ı was born of cracked concrete and rotten flowers under a broken ceramıc sun  a model of ımbecılıty from the very begınnıng   ı was obedıent and loyal and honest and everythıng was dısastrous then ı became dısobedıent and treacherous and mendacıous and everythıng was dısastrous so ı knew dısaster was my fate and ı drınk absınthe because ıts the colour of grass when ıt grows under a fat sun over corpses on a meadow thats only known war and sunshıne

sure there are the emojıs that are unıcodes frıendly face stuck over language death lıke the sıck smıles at funerals and the chatter of chıpmunks ın graveyards   for every aborıgınal sıgn there are 60000000 happy poops and ıf that doesnt gıve you hope what could

the schoolchıldren pass by ın theır exhausted ınnocence and ı know ın theır backpacks are skeletons theyll never name