The heart feels and the mind wills but the body lies smothered and dead as hunger calls the carnivores of yore lying famished in rusted chains and chewed up dried bones of marrow sprinkled in sorrow snarling consolations of ‘morrow to the crowded throngs of faceless ghosts residing in his tormented head of rented thugs and borrowed saints of the Latter-Day-Dudes of Yesterdays gathered today as they do every day during mundane Mondays recalling Boomtown Rats of the Order of the Ass-Wiping Cats preaching sadisms at the pulpits of Dylan and the Dead and the quest for a bellyful of bread for those not yet fed with their hourly dosage of commercials from the Hague as the day’s only noted prologue was in the epilogue still hung over and hovering above the opening credits of dating, mating, birthing and living to the aforementioned themes if not following the lead of cut and paste wisdom that could get you enlightened here and now in an instant then there’s no better place to look at regurgitated ancient lore than logging onto and becoming a disciple of Facebook to the fore leaving you begging for more and more even as minuscule news abound of the postman who died the day they gave birth to emails at the rate of your chosen fates such as stamps licking themselves for comfort and eventually succumbing fatefully for apparent want and lack of saliva in the eternal difference between infamous deaths and slumdog massacres reflected in the footnotes if not in the bulletins or in the films they say are based on or inspired by known or just-happens-to-be true stories tempting you to donate to that fund called the box-office is the reason we’re attracted to glamour and its simple-ceaseless clamors of beliefs that nothing arouses suspicion like sudden-spurs of generosity emanating from folks who now need your votes of sympathy for another term of self-prosperity in order to collect Oranges that shrink if you keep staring at them in the bowl instead of peeling and eating them as they did in the days of old.
(Do not take a breath)
No pardon me all over the planet if my active smoking killed yer passive lungs and if boredom finally got the better of your cousin for didn’t I warn ya that the end is the beginning of the end just as the beginning is the end of the beginning? See how funny the dried up poems get as they wanna get watered and wet again dreaming of blossoming gardens and the like that arouses romantic frights begetting questions as to why write and fright when you can cook a book like bait on a hook in a cornered nook of collected dusty soot on yer worn out boots of fluke playing forgotten tunes on a broken flute of mute dressed in yer finest suit of loot? Leaving him to aspire as he now sits and rehearses that familiar despair in memoriam of an unremarkable day as it draws to a close of drawn shades and the light outside dims and fades until the milk’s darkened and blackness comes riding the night’s horses of insulated ads glaring back at him as he sits still on a couch facing the animated box of idiocy in unanimated stillness and his heavy head spins and his eyes are glazed watching the self-same images replayed and replayed and rebroadcasted with reminders of remnants of whatever warmth occupied his body now finding outlets through his weary fingers of mortality and the seepage of the rest of the heat from the midday meal visibly exiting through his toes of remorse and footloose odor until the final release comes via the crown of his bleeding head lying sideways in the adoring bed he’d finally wed.
“Now breathe” he said.