the wayt of the world, between the shoulders

the frantic superimposing of realizations,
the way laughter hurts,
like a hollow guilt, that
wandering eye toward tomorrow.
the idiocy of future reckoning,
where shadows precede
light. as if
the heart breaks before
the end of the first kiss. inescapable
thinking, the way to embrace
irony, methodic madness, but
the final scruple remains, clinging,
though it too threatens to expire.

certainly this is no existence, even if
parody, i still maintain.
a semblance, a gesture, rote automation.
is choices, is. and
pleasure sensate the fickle fuck feeding
gimme gimme living. for the dream,
the big one, and always
morning comes fading the memory,
replace deferments with new deferments.
shelf it, out of shelf space, bound
to repetitive repetitive,
mastering this mundane; am i
the paragon of nothing? can that be
freedom? long in the history,
uninterrupted encumber. at least,
that's what i tell myself,
chewing on reality
while reflecting in a shaded mirror.

i think to myself
how very congenial i am
to believe in the hopeless.
it could be true.