dreams of a poorly trained monkey

too few smiles
learn to laugh at
eminent distraction
and destruction of the new age
until sleep no longer matters
all these days can be
measured in tidy mockery
wandering from one
filtered movement to the next
gone are the days of outrageous glory
it’s all about compromise and anticipation now
i can’t write a song
or even a good poem
but i can manipulate
this string of letters
to a useful end
words words words
with a mixture of bland actions
the morning is always precarious
with no time for coffee
but just old enough to
remember rare adventures
and in the death of privacy
these moments are too brief
and rescinded to often
held for a futures past

 

 

 

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