and what the ****, would i ever do...
blooming, robust with happiness!
with happiness i'd have to tow:
contentment! with it... a sense of an achieved
life! a purpose!
a gehennah of utopia! a zenith!

such that death is...
the lesser sire of the deity's omni- litany
of chores...
gravity and the prizeless,
personification of Atlas...
what is death?
i too await this feeble magic trick...
i too await this conjuring of dust...
this summa summarum of:
where proverbs began and where
proverbs end...
i do not feign to look again at:
the insect i didn't ****...
i curse each time i blindly stomp
on a marshmellow of a mollusk...
but with all clarity of
intent!
a mosquito i will...

i wonder, however, how this might ever
find critical traction...
grief for selling...
the maddening ordeal of a well tuned
tongue to the already *******(d) crowd...
no...
back the household chores!
the house needs to smell of rhubarb!
by now i couldn't only feign drunkness:
if i weren't so lethargic with
grief that, that is has
become almost a leisure to weep...
it's a saddening realisation that:
at best, for man, a quest for shedding
sharpening of diamonds...
for beauty...
and for the lesser sire -
a tired excuse of perseverance...

       what would i ever do with happiness?
it would exhaust me
as this sadness does...
i would have to live a life
without expectations...
without nuance... without a freshly begot
inquisitiveness...

for all that might leave me content...
i would be: by default... a malcontent;
by the default paradox of
universal fraction that is, i too, man.