The tragedy in life
is living it
like
a never-ending
Monday.
Every breath
seems accounted for
and charged to
a weekend
you’d be too tired
to give a damn
It’s suicide,
really, and the thought
that you finally figured it out
is liberatingly claustrophobic
and you have neither gun nor brain
to blow it all off
So the weekday starter
sucks the air and matter
out of your postcard-picture
fantasy
leaving you with plasma,
or frankly speaking,
ooze in an aquarium of
worms having a sun tan
You feel spent
It’s preordained
and
while the dry humor
of compulsory
companions
drags you to a grin,
you throw up
in your head
but no one will know
nor care
Not on a Monday.
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