O but how tepidly tired and dour,
How furiously, phallically fetid its flower.
Monotonously, mirthlessly humming along,
His listless life like a moribund song,
Sodden with pitifully petulant skulking,
Not deigning to die, but dreams of their sulking
Pervaded his psyche as fifty-five fleas
Formicate wildly, stinging suicide-bees.

Three years of contented, ire-inducing idleness,
Vacuous days lacking life’s latent vitalness.
Entitlement, cowardice, perhaps the antithesis
Is he of a man. Singed with syphilis,
****** from sentiment, his is the brain
Of one who breathes indignant disdain
For all those who threaten his thinly-veiled comfort.
The thespian of truth, he’d play the faux jumper.

Life’s ostensibly dead weight pulls downward, maddeningly consistent in its campaign to fell him.
Its moribund song is maniacally hummed by he who seems to mourn with his limbs as he walks,
Soul skulking petulantly as suicide-bees formicate wildly beneath his scalp;
He dreams of his post-mortem feast.

Gazing intently at his doodle-strewn bedside wall,
Cringing as he reads those scribbled aphorisms he had erased the day before,
He wonders if the bees were ever really there in the first place.

He writes, ‘Ire-inducing idleness. Vapid, vacuous days;
He is man’s antithesis, ****** from sentiment.
His is the syphilitic brain of one filled with disdain
For all those who threaten his thinly-veiled comfort,
The thespian of truth, he’d play the faux jumper.’

The elevator comes to a halt.
Exiting, he sees someone has left the door open for him.
Climbing cautiously to the roof, he is met with an angry gust upon stepping outside.
The solemn timbre of T. Yorke resounds as he drunkenly stumbles across the pebble-laden surface,
And as he sidles along the ledge he realizes that nothing is infinite.