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We’re going viral, the Midas
touch kills us, we’re a pandemic’s
golden lunch, panic and die young,
death loves us, life has abandoned us,
life within four walls, the wallpaper
is the canvas to be tainted by
the blood of a domestically violated wife,
inhale death, here we’re to decorate
the ground, poets are to write obituaries
while our souls orbit in the polluted sky,
it’s a sweet life, face masks and
a poor palm, can’t afford any
food, so we die of hunger in our huts,
broken hearts, fermented rooms,
radioactive farts, meaningless lives,
awareness is not guaranteeing any luck,
so we just watch as our breath sacs
shrivel and spray dust, lust to be alive,
a dead man’s jive, too broke to love
how we’re living life, it’s strife and
greed, spite defining us, so we just
die of karma, search for Dharma at
the deathbed side, can’t you smell the
Reaper’s stench as you breathe,
yes, this is it, we die…
We fly with angels, demons or atoms
in the next life. Sadistic clown describing
your faults, bodies cold, freezing hearts,
new age art, make you see the light
through darkness’ eyes, strive to be
alive, bribe the need to be alive
with a Jesus’ smile, melt the bones into slime,
can’t let our end define the living’s means.
Derive purpose from the sight of
a frozen corpse’s pose, toss a rose
to a dying believer, can’t you see
the living are the cynical ones,
toss a coin to those sinners.
Scream unto us oh Gaia, spray your
curse into our lungs, let our guts regurgitate
their layers, peel us, these membranes
do not define us, we need to refrain
from lifestyles and plan our deathstyles…

Let’s groove to the sounds
of flatlining EKGs, sunflowers
and roses on grey tombstones,
plant lawn around the gravestone,
‘I am Legend’, reality imitates
art it seems, dry coughs and
panic buying stunts, open the
wholly holy book before we transfigure
into transdimensional figures, ones
and zeros, there’s no hero in
this horror series’ pilot,
ask Elohim to change the plot,
remove the spotlight from the
dying kind, the chandelier should be
avoided to spark. Any luck on
finding the healing herb underneath
an African bark? Detach your feet
from the ground, enter the Ark
of existential survival.
The ignorant are packaged in
silos, fermenting and manuring
dry maize, the arrogant are left
with scars and bullet holes, the
obedient are left stuck in mazes
and decrypting conspiracies about
the intentions behind the ailment scenes.
Amplified thoughts, expectancies
of going against the bourgeoisie,
Karl Marx’s promised retaliation,
breathe in, this is not some
manifestation of an academic thesis,
but whatever follow your collectively
euro-gentile instincts, little insects
stuck on a web of lies, die in peace
and sound, drop on your knees,
let your bones kiss the cracked ground.
Hounds with rabies vaccinated with
sharp bloody swords, no more words
to describe this state, this time
we just embrace this maze, call
it a phase or an age, still some
will snore in graves, time has sung
her bitter song…

If these similes could cure viruses
or treat syphilis; I would leave
many in strain and pain,
if these pens were syringes
I would pump poison into
your veins.
No matter, we still die soon,
perish during a moon or day,
it’s a sweet life I might say,
roses and violets, the graveyard
has been shaved for you to
inhabit. Dark beautiful insight,
little rabbits facing a pride of
mountain lions…Rest in ( • )

By Eugene ‘Philosophisticater’

Artwork by Tomasz Alen Kopera

Philosophistication Poetry © All Rights Reserved ©

It’s A Sweet Life •Words Of Anarchy•


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