after changing my drinking regime i realised i moved to a different planet... it's days are ~36 hours long, they include an entire night and two halves of two days.

this poem was to be a brief review of a
sample of a book,
the melancholic mystifying melancholy
as something mysterious,
not a noumenon in sight,
just the same bland phenomenon on
repeat, always in the modern age
with urban environments instead
of attacking old men who accomplished
much, instead attacking youth...
it's when he mentioned reading *much
of Foucault's madness and civilisation,
much?! what's much? a lot, most of it...
so it doesn't exactly mean all of it,
and this is a person studying for an MA
(masters in arts)... oh let me tell you,
melancholy in youth spreads like
an Australian bush fire, in youth depression
is actually contagious, a virus of some sort,
old farts don't bother each other in
the same way, moulding each other...
they complain about bad knees,
aches and pains and erectile dysfunctions...
but it's a sad comedy, it's not exactly
a tragedy.. they're laughing with each
other: WE MADE IT! youth can't say
the same, old age used to contain the virus
of depression en masse, it spread
naturally, in varying degrees, but depression
in youth is like A.I.D.S. or something,
talking my old grandfather for long periods
at a time i too thought about jumping
off the roof... yet this is given the comforts
of post-communist retirement whereby
he was comfortable. i too read all of
Foucault, one picking up **** from a dealer
who worked in a hospital and was supplying
lean ***** to rich kids doping...
book in hand, he was sitting on his sofa
playing a computer game, we were both at
the same uni, he was there for business reasons
studying oriental & african studies...
but actually there on business...
he saw me with the book and just said:
oh man, heavy going, yeah? see... i should
write something more on the subject matter,
but there's already a bunch of coalminers
digging in my conscience whether i start apply
self-censorship to the whole debate, accusing
myself of the Orwellian thought-crime;
the great suppressors of vocabulary, who
probably speak fluent regional slang better
standard trans-regional English.