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Like any of it matters
Like you
Like me
Like everyone in between
We’re not much
We’re eventually
Just a dream
Or a bad movie
We are almost
Like make believe
Characters in someone’s plot
We have pain and suffering
Loss and ache
Bad breath, a cold sore
Cancer and more
But really
Does it matter?
I suspect it matters not

Like art, like mars,
Like things preserved in jars
It’s all a fucked up saving
A complicated craving
A wallowing or
Pain filled wailing
It’s a mad as fuck gesticulating

Right now
Through the window
I can smell human waste
I imagine septic water
Around my place
Shit and scum seeping
Deep into the soil
Because for a moment
Some human made system
That worked
Doesn’t work right now
I’m trying not to think
Beyond the idea of art
The indulgent and fanciful
I’m trying to ignore
the smell and how it makes
My ideas
Seem farcical

One can spend endless time
Dreaming of immortality yet
Right now
Smelling our humanity
Our lack, our waste
Our utter disgrace
I’d say that our dreams of countless days
Of creativity
Our hopes
Of making new worlds
Filled with artistry
Are a sad
Longed for day
That’s passed.
Art, so very sadly
Now today,
Is a farce
Like religion
Well, like kissing someone kind
Who takes the time
To ask
What you like
Who wants to hold hands
Who understands
That even one little thing
That you do
Or did
Like choosing Red or blue
or puce
or any other fucking hue

Might matter

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