As arbitrary as a day may seem,
With its minutes waning it seems even more arbitrary.
Crusty guitar riffs somehow revoke the pulsing head
which is sure only to feel worse at this rate
because it is, in fact, nearly morning.
Sentimentality is overdue. And frankly, I’m astounded,
that I, of all people, could situate myself is such a day
of standard results and mundane activity.
It seems to issue to me that if something is to change,
and it aught to change, if only for the serenity of day break
to be a happy consistency in an otherwise robust life,
that I must be the variable, the cog in the machine, which throws
it all into material chaos.
Provoke me! I dare you!
I’m a crafty new form of art which
critics praise for the:
“ingenuity of material,”
which, “just bleeds with a sense of self-satisfaction
and voluntary perfection,” sitting in front of the computer screen,
“summed with a breath-holding sense of simmering realities”
:a dismal future of love, children, and ultimate similarity.