Bad Tidings

If I want to have a future
I have to forget the past
Riffraffing alone with strangers
And the shadows that they have cast

I’m sick of the sound of cities
The cynicism and the grime
I’m sick of the countryside
I’m sick all of the time

I’m weary of your beauty
And all that it implies
I’m tired of those ruby lips
And piercing, cold blue eyes

I want to sit here forever
And let the years go by
I want the blanket of time
To smother me until I die

I’ll listen to the words of Cohen
Or hear what Mr.Spock says
I’ll call up Ziggy Stardust
And beg him to take me to space

I’ll ride on a chariot of fire
And race my way into hell
I’ll take leave of all of my senses
And drink from the poisoned well

And then, when the sky splits asunder
And gods and demons, they laugh
I’ll raise my arms and fingers
And smash this green ball in half

(The poem is the half digested bile after a particularly disagreeable year. Make of it what you will)

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