for so many people who claim to
be living,
   well... i see them as often as i
might see the dead,
or pay my "respect" before their grave;
and when i do see them?
i'd prefer seeing a ghost
to be honest.
gravestones are more easibly
fathomed / digested,
than neighbours you haven't seen
for years while living next to them
for years,
but who you nonetheless acknowledged
by taking their large packet mail...
sure as ****, these people
claiming to be alive,
   are but a hair's width away from
being claimed, dead;
if this is life? please send me to the crematorium:
prompto!
   even my retired communist party
grandfather speaks out-loud
dementia-esque: this is not the sort of life
i'd like to live...
  let alone retire into with a pair
of loafers... now, that's telling...
      a retired communist says this,
what's the retired capitalist going to say?
ka-ching?!
       like **** he is,
he's only going to do what every capitalist knows
what to do... i.e.? panic!
watch him... he'll turn all schizoid and
make insinuations of owning what he owns,
+... a tapeworm eating at him.
oi! oi oi! lucy! you forgot
to attach the feral?! ladies & gents,
  we can now claim to have opened the first
gymnastic zoo!
  guess where we send the mental health
children... dunno(h) to be honest,
better ask rudolf höss -
thing is, that always bugged me,
is that faking diacritical arithmetic,
saying i, can't count?
     huss, hooß? surely... shapren sherven...
are the germans are ******* with me
given the umlaut count
and the pre-existing latin grapheme of œ?
seriously, stop ******* with me,
i know you say it as: rudolφ hehß...
yep you curl the omicron out of existence...
english do it all the time with
their surd "diacritics" of certain letters
- (e.g.? gnome gnostic diagnostic - oh look!
here it pops up!) -
H = scissors for graphemes,
great jewish invention, by the way;
very much avoidable,
           although, not this time, k.k. k, o?
never know how it goes...
o.k.? or k.o. - he's on the floor, he's not
asking, nor exclaiming,
              just call it the comatose stop.

in summary: for so much claim to life,
i see my neighbours and nothing beyond
the rescue of pre-maturely residing in
a grave,
    and as all sober people have it:
no worthwhile epitaph to mind,
unless it be a copy & paste story,
and some obscure date,
   in that famous copernican non-linear
sense, minding an inclusion in
the neo-communism that's apparent
within the content of history;
      history is the new communism,
can't you see it?
       we are already enrolled in minding
it...
     go on, wave, ola!
     say hello to the new communism
that's the study, and transcending the study
of history...
      oddly... i always thought
of history as an appetite for hoarding,
and car-boot sale markets... in french
that's called flea markets...
  useless junk, celebrated with victorian grandeur
of sombre + black;
sure as ****, for those claiming to be alive,
in neighbourly-talk,
the dead feel more alive than these
******* zombies, invisible to their shadow,
or casting none, for that matter;
curse of narcissus translated by
the curated non-existence of a mirror:
vampires and the lost visage in a mirror,
  these zombies and the lost shadow;
if vampires cast no reflection in a mirror,
zombies cast no shadow, with either
the sun's or the moon's array.