I work in order to be at my leisure
but I am not at my leisure because I work;
this sick circle takes me around
and around and around yet again
with no exit in sight until the
ripe age of 65. 62 if I’m lucky.
59 1/2 if I’m ridiculously lucky.
Lucky thing that I married money,
(which hasn’t paid off yet
but may before I’m 59 1/2,
if I’m not dead by then,
or maimed, or paralyzed,
either physically or mentally
by the stultifying effects of life)
as a means of saving my zest for life.
Rising tension in my home
Makes me appreciate the peace,
That once freely did roam,
Now captivated creature we need to release.
*
Like a pipe blocked and filled with steam,
The pressure uprise could be
An inferno or geyser it would seem
When it explodes higher than a tree.
Rules can be bent
Crossing bridges over streams.
Our eyes will adjust
I consider myself to be a normal boy
(perhaps even a normal man)
with normal likes and dislikes
(such as apple pie and country music),
but then I question all this
when I find myself liking the smell of my own farts
rating the quality of each I release.
oh sweet refuse, filling the air
byproduct of my own waste,
handiwork of my own bowels.
the sieve and the sand 