Being alive is terrible, diabolical,
fraught w/ peril at every level.
From dreaming dreamy dreams we're torn,
from moment you're cockcrowbarred outta bed,
a thousand natural shocks ahead.
Accidents predate, can’t wait to happen.
Life is death eager to ambush,
& you’re ever a danger to yourself, moosh
(coz two indifferences one death errant equal:
subconscious suicide, senseless synchronicity
is crazy paving gazing nodding off to self-pity,
plus juggernaut’s shortcut down your sac-de-cul).
Lovers leave, knockers sag, ***** flop.
There is no God but there are Acts of God.
Taps leak, archdukes are assassinated
& your kids will surely ****** off their bikes.
No Dharma rama will get you Buddhalike
as fast as full Englishes & being overmedicated.
Eggs, Ming vases smash. Hearts, backs break.
Souls will be lost & knees will be scraped.
Suicides succeed, suicide attempts fail,
parasuicides fluke it. Souffles go ’phut’ & stay flat.
Milk is spilt; firemen & soldiers don’t come back.
Reconciliation letters get lost in the mail.
Everything is terrible, diabolical,
round all four corners Jormungand coils.
The just get gypped, cold cases stay paperclipped.
Loved ones die violently, prematurely, needlessly & still
the autocannibal universe will expand until
the photon/off switch trips
a trillion suns into damb squips.
All that Hitchhiker’s hokum I learned as a manchild
isn‘t true: life is not 42 , it’s horsemeat & paedophiles!
Horsemeat banquets in horsemeat houses on horsemeat
paedo horsemeatstreetsweepers sweep. On their Nokias,
paedestrians browse Wikipaedo, realise the Cabinet
are cyborgs of horsemeat reconsitituted, drone-piloted
by the Paedo Mafia.
Everything is wicked, despicable...
Yet tho' we must swallow a distinct absence
sanity's a cockroach of coping, peace of mind
a bodge-job-gened mutant, hope a robust rodent. Love ‘s
a scavenger’s salvageable sentiment. Conscience like Keef
can beat the odds, tho’ standards drop like the Stupid 27 Club.
Whether Winnie well wet-whistled on the wireless,
or Bob Marley wafting from a neighbour’s place,
a rugged rugrat’s redfaced noise in quake rubble alive,
or a once-upon-a-snowy-Easter boulder rolled to one side:
somehow somewhere someone’s mind will survive,
something somewhere will always be alright.
It might just as well be you
for a second or two.
Now shut the Hell out
& shut the hell up,
little ones. Sleep tight.