Friday 6th November 2020
this great monotony. this, the
almighty force to keep you
exactly where you ought to be.
and shouldn't you be made?
at the grand old age (two decades),
not long and you'll be past it!
stay where you are, then,
to keep the cogs turning.
you are capital. my dear,
you are not creative (n.).
never mind the poetics. never
mind the prose. the pranayama,
the pages and pages.
what are your words to me?
wasted they are, on the war there and
the politics here, that religion and this sex
and those drugs, the fire, on her and how
she makes you feel things and the weather,
the fucking weather and
most of the time, you just feel scared.
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