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visitors

Oblivion

It’s cold out here in Oblivion, our garments are worn through
our bones are growing wide and thick as our frail animal cloth is stretched
over stooped frames trailing in the oily smoke of fat cigars
smoked by fat people with small hearts, playing Trumps with our loss
we don’t care in Oblivion, all the mirrors are smeared in Oblivion
we are dirty and unwanted, we smell like the drumbeat emanating from dead skin
out of tune and out of time, the animal still bleeding and refusing to die
the beat is slow but constant, and we dance with half empty bottles under streetlights (because candles are too expensive, and the wind blows hard here)
and we drink in big gulps imagining our cheap wine to be the poison that killed Socrates
only we don’t slip away, because we don’t care enough to breathe that much
we smoke our glass pipes and laugh dementedly
we fight with knives, lunging drunkenly at each other under bridges next to highways
people drive by and laugh, shouting: “Look, those are the poor fools from Oblivion!”
but we don’t hear them, because we are all deaf in Oblivion
we scream at the cold that sucks us dry of joy and meaning
but we don’t pray to the sun, because we can’t see in Oblivion
our eyes only look down to the earth that spawned us
(our feet are always in touch with the beast that will take us back)
our hearts did not change from soft to hard in subtle whispers
spoken by the money men and their charming mistresses drinking pink champagne
in middle class mansions with mothers with fat tits
feeding babies from sterilized bottles
our once fragile hearts simply disappeared
into Oblivion 

Every Day I'm Shuffling - Image by Chris Wait