Shudder, stare at an emaciated self
Taste buds worn out, functioning not.
Like late justice food is now available
When peristalsis cannot self sustain
Dignitas clinic is a hundred years in the future, here
He clumsily lifts one dead limp with the functioning one
His mouth twisted with the stroke
Stifling a whimper he struggles to speak, its slowed, intelligible though
Lift him up, he still has some life.
A petit girl snatched by a rickety rusty automobile,
Rode by a disciple of the unscrupulous
All there was, was a sickening thud
Then she lay still, face up, funny showing, knickers shiny white, clean
Bruised but fresh, innocent, all in all, dead.
Sex kitten dripping.
Get a grip I say
Dignified is a lie, there is no such thing.
There is no humility in being numbered quietly, slowly, painfully, pathetically, or in a flush.
Hemingway noted that we all end the same;
Villains, kids, pretty girls, witches, saints, dictators, mockers and ugly ducklings.
Tribalists too. Stop connecting events. Nothing makes sense
Crime and punishment? Providence? Try another.
Or that we have been around as a universe fourteen point seven billion years
A hundred years each, on the higher side
Members in space are in a hurry to get away from each other, rot if you ask me
Study smaller particles, smaller than the atom, says the scientists
Generously speaking, so meaningless