In 2020 we are the motors of the mechanics we drive
in the bed
of other work days
as the bees fly less
and
the drive of somersaulting mad men, calmer
than a pool of iced days off
after the pool boy
cleans up
start screaming,
although it’s universal when you rise, and my limbs burst
through these elsewhere tossed things, and elsewhere bones
that have no succor in the middle of the sun’s dance, as if:
naïve butchers in the street are sleeping on the bus and
there is no answer from the ricochet dream apart from
keep your **** together
keep your **** together…
and the world is well travelled when you’re smoking beside a dog
and the obliterated silence of a room has a voice,
but the turnstiles open when the poem begins, ah!
the weekend again-this, envelope of random orchids that rustle
and
open,
in the haven of a ***** flat where we find the best corona jokes
new cities
these shaking palms
the way the world works better at 10 am
and the humour of a crazy snake, checking KPIs
again,
and when i wake
i will love this zero
hour
contract
more,
i will worship you and say
yes
yes
YES!
