It’s All Reruns
At night I take pills and all day it’s all sandwiches.
I go to the beach which sand inhabits.
The sand, which in habit is colored like skin
From dead white to dark night sand and skin are akin.
Which brings me to say the point of these days
Is ambiguous to say the least and at least they hold interest
To a remembrance in my future rest and most futurest self.
Though the rest of my future seems on quite a high shelf.
I’m not climbing, not yet, though I’ve been set a net
And a fall would be meaningless, so the climb seems counterfeit.
Simulated imitation of what forefathers bared daily
And I stand at the beach and drink drink after drink
And think thing after thing, but things they do sink
Like sludge is my mind, a landfill of thoughts
So cover it up before I see my boss.
