i'm just a body reduced to talking about
treadmills and counting calories,
i might as well be a budgie trapped
in a birdcage running the motion of carrying
forward a mile, yet standing still...
the famous 1980s angst against being schooled
is gone with joy division and the smiths,
i'm into placebo's cover version of bigmouth strikes
again anyway... seriously, i'm like a modern
day don quixote, but instead of windmills
i'm facing adversaries that are on treadmills:
keep it up and they'll turn you into hamsters
powering the whole ****** gym,
or that's what you should be doing,
don't get me wrong, i used to pump iron
on the weights for ***-appeal... **** me did that
prove to be a farce: bulimia didn't feel roman
empire rite of passage enough;
but i'll admit, squash is a funnier version of tennis,
it's like two people playing a one-man game
of hitting a ball against the wall.*

darwinism isn't really an existential
anaesthetic, it's like a cancer
given the body is a history,
thanks to darwinism we're all
berry foragers in a forest of
whims and pampering of exacting circa;
i just loathe this objectivity
of cool being implanted in me:
so why would i pre-date cloning
with analogous generics of feeling
to make me into a bog-standard mr. smith?!