seize the day?
life is not a paragraph,
death is no parenthesis?
that’s what they want us to believe-the romantics, the
do-gooders, the whiny old school masters living in
sluggish slimy conditions with no time to spare for
their mid-life crisis, which hangs looming above the nearly
broken ceiling in their old government school like warped
paint but still smiling and playing the old fool in a chapter
of the broken children’s lives.
whispers amongst thieves and revelries in drunkenness
proudly summon the adage of this is it, this is the moment
we’ve been waiting for-this earth has never been quite so
fertile, so indulgent, so sultry, and this life? this life, a cougar
waiting since a hundred and hundred and thousand years into
its own lewd journey, waiting to pounce on new offspring
her unfaithful lover provides.
there exists a loner school, masterfuls of old age, repeatedly
chanting the same axioms of life is short and make her yours but
i say she’s lustful; jealousy does not become a woman of her
stature, why be envious of the next phase of death? why not of
the others? make us believe there’s darkness beyond her-maybe,
just maybe, the darkness in the next phase requires us to call it
‘life’-and we’d all to learn a new language.