trust your gut

not your gut feelings.nauseous,
how shall i let you know
by singing or dancing (or typing
a fair plate of alphabetical insalata?)
that i care much less
about the choking world or the blue sky
clogged up or the sea breams going extinct
than dead bloodstream
than the crap in my veins
than the dreams i used to have-
those i manage to bury in vain
when only vanity remains
instead of sanity
instead of profanity
instead of the mesmerising tik tok
sound the alarm used to make-
on which i rely to stay awake
until the last shark is killed
for its fins and we have cockroaches for lunch
but then you see who would intend to live till
that day. anyway i was only joking
but the pebbles have been thrown
and the puddle did not move
did not wince or give a wrinkle –
only stagnant water, tears so old
they are no longer liquid
they smell like old people’s groins
wrapped in the most unimaginative
nappies, or diapers if you prefer. old people
abandoned, albeit extremely beautiful-
by smarter cars and refrigerators for
bigger happier appartments
with szchwanky names in italian
or french, my vineyard his casa her villa
our utopia
oh la la.
oh my.
utopia oh la la.

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