night & day are disengaging with the sound of grain growing.
my sleep hovers over these different planets
and various bellyaches are screaming their hunger –
people don’t need poetry.
people need bread, and paperwork, and shoes.
sandwiched between convention and fear,
old people just want to conform.
my calling, my calling –
do I call you?
and will you call me back?
as day breaks,
we’re being instrumental to our own deaths.
love is a foreign word
that cannot fly
pummelled by gastric demands.
somebody please call the extrication unit.
my calling once drove this pile of contorted flesh.
my calling now has a decent job.
it’s hard to believe
it ever lived.
you said nothing will be changed, not even an iota,
and look now, turns out it’s so easy,
if you want to be happy
just buy a shampoo.