Nighttime muses caress breezy shoulders
careening over little known instincts.
For bliss, for virtue, for loss, in folders.
On blocks of lady luck, we connect.
Using whichever craft of needlepoint
canoodles us best, to resurrect.
We sit and soak our nimble hips
(so I like to call it).
Some drive cars, most eat shit.
We decay at computers becoming illiterate.
Mouths flap, ears close, dogs still prance and babies pose.
Little’s the same but most still here.
Togetherness, anti-retro world of narcotic bliss.
You know what I mean.
Everyone talks about the same.
The people, the places, and worst, the things.
We’ve got shoes, we’ve got pants, we’ve got shirts
and sometimes even skirts.
Hats, purses, jewelry, blame, all the same.
It’s a kind of madness, this sickness is.
Oh, do tell.
We drink, eat, shit, fuck, breathe.
And move, we all move.
Capacitize, monopolize, reiterate.
Concretize, idolize, create.
Philosophize, dramatize, rejuvenate.
It’s a kind of sickness, this madness is.
Rusty days, layback mattresses.
We are parody, we are myth.
Satire, blasphemy, tragedy, tryst.
Hardly there, always here and closer to death.
For those with bodies, only birth was first.
It’s a kindness, this awareness is.