We are all going to die.
We are all going to be forgotten.
It doesn't matter if your grave is six feet deep and three feet wide,
Or if your body was slung over the side,
of a boat in motion
from hands devoid of emotion
We all end up just the same.
Decayed and rotten.
Forgotten.
If that isn't Equality,
I don't know what is.

Painters hands always so messy oiled up
reek of turpentine smoke moonshine
Alizarin crimson streaks lamp black roots
their faces gesso'd to unreality they fan
brushes broken
canvases filled to their brim
much as poets
who reek of  one day's and starlights
mountain peaks they haven't seen
Martini's black in white spaces, coats waiting to attack,
tie up.
With dried up pens, filled notebook paper.

Dear Mr. Poet Man,
How do you do that?
You make the most of everything
Even when there is nothing.
It confounds me so to see,
Mr. Poet Man,
The things my heart says to me in utmost secrecy
Written in your words.
How, Mr. Poet Man, do you constantly see
Beauty in all things, Even Death?
I need to know Mr. Poet Man,
How does one die beautifully?
Would I be beautiful to you then?

genetic research moves
in twists and turns
and the latest news is:
DR DYNAMIC BOLD FINDS
GENE FOR SHYNESS

"With this latest discovery,"
Dr Bold announced
"we can eliminate shyness"

"Why has it taken Science,"
our team asked Dr Bold
"so long to discover this gene for shyness?"

"We would have found it earlier,"
said Dr Bold
*"but it was hiding behind three other genes"

I'm a tiny blade of grass
In a meadow, all alone
Nobody comes to visit me
Nobody calls my phone

Oh, if I could make a friend
This tiny blade of grass would cheer!
Hey, this must be my lucky day
'Cause look:
Here comes a deer!

you **** me
with the way you
come and go
in and out
of my life
you could always stay
stay for some tea
or a stiff drink
and maybe we'll remember
why we started this whole thing