On the way from Bakewell
The hills sob and keep asking,
"Are we therapeutic cocktail glasses?"
Brown roofs hide their sadness,
Dripping their wetness on the road.
I struggle to understand the meaning of all this,
That creek will survive my existence
Sitting in the car like a dead passenger --------
My heart is missing,
The flesh of my chest is like dog food;
I would fade
but I write that I do not want to perish;
because I am too coward to admit it.
I wear a smile.
Grinningly answer when the driver asks for something,
While its Saline drops corrode the remaining brain
I smile, chat, nod and smile as it must be
roundabouts are spinning and gone
I can't wish more.
The picturesque hills are speckled with sheep are like familiar
plastic puppets on this landscape,
The driver keeps repeating,
"Love lambs. They're cute."
She raved about the lamb dish she had at a restaurant yesterday
She's unaware of the horror
The absurdity
that arises from this kind of inconsistent
thinking could be bizarrely tied to cruelty
I am sad
They pretend they love nature
but damage it
Loving animals
but consuming them after they were killed by others.
The paradoxes of silliness.
Everywhere
"I am not on this planet."
"This is not my time."
"I am not in this car."
Repeating, reprising, I am smiling --
That is just my body.
Your nose is on my neck,
It is like a molybdenum spike,
Exclusively harming me.
It does not matter.
The motorway is a pulsing vein,
Pumping all the cars in some direction
We are blood cells ---
I might be a cancer cell that should be eliminated
Oldham is the next organ,
then the cage in which I live is coming
I am dissolving,
The nothingness blows me out into the air
I am not there
Shall I live tomorrow
the answer is
uncertain.
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