It's a strange feeling dating someone knowing the arrangement is impermanent and that they will indeed be gone at some point; feels like a sick immoral joke to be playing with my heart, but
it's important to realize that I'm not in control, not even in matters pertaining to a perceived spiritual bond.
But it doesn't mean that I won't try
again and again
and again and again searching for something I don't even know what like a dog looking for its master.
Let me be free

Synthetic lawn
radioactive pine
With a retractable garden hose
& A 1 car garage
Offset
With pearly laminate
and a bare wooden gate

The doorbell is now
A zoom monitor
& The dog
Is in its plastic hut in the corridor
While
The child in the upper window
plays Minecraft
Alone with the halls silent with decadent dust

They turned my childhood home into a mausaleum,
But the truth is, it was no better then.
We were still suffocating in the immense nothing

A loser is someone who wakes up to an alarm
& drives to a place they hate doing things around people they hate
for multiple hours a day
to only make a pittance and live a sub standard life after the fact.
It's better to withdraw;
I've been the loser countless times before, but you can't lose at something you don't even choose to engage in

& They made it easy
when doing nothing feels like a revolutionary act
I no longer care what happens
1,000,000 years of human evolution & survival & they have us
so afraid

The little man with the blue shirt
Drinks jars of fermented **** of which he purchases online for $179
Dollars

The procured **** is sourced from the bladders of Hispanic
Gypsy kawaii Core only fans models

His only love is derived
From the stenchy
Liquer
It has notes of lavender &
Hot mustard

God is dead , but the little man
With a blue shirt
     retracts his trigger & smiles
Unmolested

I sleep naked in my covers
With my window wide open
And the fan blasting with
The stink of September
& It's minstrel children parading through the lounge garden

When I'm still awake
I make a biscuit with Jam
And drink unfiltered coffee grounds
To cool off my sores
& Rinse my eyes

These puddles are now & the women have never been more ugly.
We're all
suffering

I hate writing on my phone.
By the time the thought has arrived I'm
editing a misspelled work or autocorrect has squandered the spirit

If I had a reason
To write, then I'd write,
But this manner of scribe is inefficient

and the ape who receives my poems uses them for tissue after an especially horrendous
evacuation

If I was paid to do this
I'd be poor, just like now, but
at least I could say I'm a poet

They persist and feast on my **** which is gelatinous and sickly
& paraded by the local
satanic convention

I'm awake at 7am
& Have managed to dream about crickets in prayer

I have no boss
But I still feel subjugated. Maybe some day
I'll be free
when my corneas are fitted for the massacre

I used to love
someone
named Cambria,
now she
sits behind glass unaware
of my existence;
I saw this coming