Bullshiterature
Carefully perfuming my essence
My existence,
Trying, desperately, to cover the rancid
Wretched, disheartened stench of
out-living my expected
Self-expiration date by years
Despite
Countless attempts
To poison the well.
Excessive drink
& hallucinogen benders.
Scripts and the captain
Inebriated careens
In metal death traps
Disregard for pedestrian traffic laws
Or the slow suicide of carcinogens
None have left my flame, eternal, extinguished.
I notice my blatant half-assery
In hindsight and
Attribute it less to a will to live
Than to a lack of will to know they live on without me
Some (myself included) call me coward
In hushed whispers behind backs
To each other or
Fewer still, directly to my face
Yet all hold the same reverent
Resignation to note that such a jab
Could seem, indeed, to provide
Provocation, motivation
enough to humpty dumpty into oblivion
And none want their own king’s horses
And men, doggedly chasing them
Towards their own demise.
What do you do when your soul’s milk has long ago
Curdled? Does the fragrance weaken?
With time could it be cheese or yoghurt?
Or does life really end in that spoiling of milk, regardless of the
Thriving organisms at work throughout it?
