Happy New Epoch in Hades
As the years dwindle, they’re so much more like the same old yarn. As though a lifetime of yearning amounts to a pile of not-so-very magic beans and the dust of an artificial world we dwell within disintegrates slowly, gone insane. Mistaken years of remorse, a dopey foray in search of meaning in a meaningless story unveiled as fables retold in books of no return. A public library of useless information. Humanity’s a sordid affair we muddle through to become unbecoming. It’s who we’re defending and what we do.
We never had any chance. An afterthought affliction that no remedy can cure. The falsehoods of freedom in this world outweigh any honest stabs at the whole truth. Outnumbered by the honest multitudes of dishonest, faceless others who have no bearing in their own messy beds that resemble mine. Tuck in the sheets like a military foot soldier' rite of madness. Fluff up the doughy pillow where desire lingers in a nightmarishly common game of chance. The heads or tails flip coin toss of horse feathers. Two out of three wins the prize. Gliding on the wings of a tarnished angel’s dreams deferred. As angels go, Lucifer was a favorite to fail and fall.
Why can’t we lift our bodies like a bird up, up, way up there into the sky? Rising like a phoenix from the ashes of another dull year, squawking, only to fall with a thud like some mythical Icarus trying to touch the sun. Burning down the temple of bodily fluids and waste byproducts. The stench inside a thorny rose. Pick a poison that’ll kill, but they never say when.
Fill the loving cup with phlegmy spit, sweaty blood, and crocodile tears from too many phony dead gods. Hock a loogie. Spit in the eye of the almighty. The worldly illusion of progress has no real place in the power struggle of history’s earthly remains. Archaeological digs in the swamp of new beginnings. To discover our birthright. Your frilly slip is showing. The late bloomers of nice, clean undies soiled in the new season of old underwear. It’s a dirty mess that no one wants to wash anymore. To expect happy returns on last year’s short-lived undergarment investments.
That first step into the unknown universe of offal is a real doozy. Whoops. Scraping the remnants from the bottom of your boots. It’s good luck, doesn’t make it stink any less. A routine charade. As wine sours to vinegar, the bittersweet days. Some minor-league Renaissance revival. Words fall out as others try to catch their gist. Interpreting a future in which the present had previously existed. Just because you love doesn’t make you a lover, nor remotely loved. It’s so avant-garde, modern, and contrived, this push and pull of time's template. It leaves us exhausted and defeated. Mimic a copy of the original.
You wanted the world, and all you got was a crappy t-shirt. Say no more to know the score. A bowel movement in the key of D minor. Sing it loud and proud. A new dawn. A new day. A fresh start. Sing a song of nonsense, a pocket full of words that convey the babble of the rabble. Content in the discontented mind of delusional follies. The old swindle of another trip around the uncaring sun. Howling winds unsettle the restless soul. Spirits running on empty chug along the bumpy cobblestones to nowhere. Keep it darker than you can see. No happy days here again. No brighter tomorrow. Seize the yesteryear for tomorrow’s ungrateful hours.
Desire’s a fickle monstrosity with fangs clawing its way to the top of the slag heap. Locked in the mind’s dungeon. Chained to a weeping wall, waiting for better days. It never arrives. Groping to find the last conclusion of another epoch. A supposedly good maestro of high intelligence. The expatriates who find God hiding under their beds can still vote for the worst monsters ever known in the history of our shared failure. The fall of man’s wrath has no bones and slithers off into another doomed debacle. Compose your symphonic self. The winter solstice is no solace for the death of spring's decay. It was always us or them.