i really don't care

its some kind of smut
the punching bag baby
has long since disappeared
and the puppet master is swinging
from a rope over mama's old ceramic stove...
the inanity of it all is all too obvious
and is not to be obviated by obscenities...
a slow tremor rumbles through my dreams
which are regulated to death on the micro level
but completely unregulated on the macro…
i am full of captious bull shit:
those bucketheads are late to the party again…
i smile and grunt but still it stings my puny sense of pride…
i need a personal bail~out for all this interpersonal falderal
like a sore throat in summer time…
like a being stitched together with pieces of dead things or
a charm with a bent for the inscrutable daemonic in the heart
of irony…
we discuss desserts
for infantilized ninety year olds...
i really don't care and it ain't that i am apathetic...
i let my mind explode silently
and observe the fireworks...
to walk off unencumbered into the night...
*
collaboration with jim eaise