The mundane is full of puzzles.
Why must hair turn white as we age?
Instead of purple or any shade of green?
Why must we always give in to gravity?
And fall when we are tired?
When we can simply levitate in slumber
and float carelessly in mid-air?
Why must we subscribe to violence
in order to annihilate each other?
When we can simply do nothing
And just bore each other to death?
Why must we argue when we can settle all disputes
in a staring match and he who blinks first loses
and must swallow his own putrid vomit?
Why must everybody break
and give in to carnal temptation?
When we can just f*ck in our minds
and purposely avoid
all guilt and attachment?
Why must we tap each other in the back
as a sign of affirmation?
When we can spit in each other’s faces
and thank each other for it?
Why must beds be made of cotton?
Instead of some slimy muck
that smells like perfume wrapped
in an assortment of comfortable fabrics
and adjusts to our bodily contours?
Why must we be unnecessarily proud?
When we can all outdo and shame each other
in superficial modesty and fake humility?
Why must we shit in our anus?
When all forms of verbal excrements
come oozing out of our mouths?
Why must we incessantly pine for validation?
When we can all be sufficiently convinced
of our mediocrity and irrelevance
in this universe
that is endlessly beyond our grasp?
Why must we question God’s design?
When we can simply shut up
and be cluelessly satisfied?
Why must you waste time reading this?
When you can simply entertain yourself
by doing something as pleasurably mundane
and infinitely satisfying
as scratching your itchy ass?
I devour what is given
and take what is not.
I spit out what I dislike
and envy what I cannot.
Take me as one of your own.
The wolf said to the sheep.
I’d gladly shed my wolf skin
And wrap myself in your wool.
I shall bleat like you do.
Cuddle with you in the cold
And pretend I’m no killer.
Pray hard that nature allows this.
That I may be permitted to be what I’m not.
For if nature disagrees
You shall find yourself helplessly contemplating
As I feed in your entrails.
IV. DARKNESS COMES
A barrage of discontentment
visits my worried soul.
My mind is a wasteland
filled with memories
of past loves,
of former friends and enemies,
of wounds that never healed.
A spider crawls past me as I lay
face-flat staring blankly
on empty static
in an old TV screen.
Probably wishing I’d wake up
and wash the stupid dishes.
It weaves cobwebs on my behalf -
tangles of joys and horrors past.
Of accomplishments and indiscretions.
Transgressions cloaked in good deeds.
Ice is building up outside the window.
The winter cold is creeping in.
There is no strength left in me
to even bother building a fire.
I pray but I stutter.
In mid-sentence I lose all thoughts.
Cold conquers my body.
I lay lifeless. Stiff as a forgotten statue.
No clouds welcome me.
05 December 2017
© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.