képek, betűk

Everything still says nothing, always.
Absurd, absurd, and more absurd still.
"There would be sunshine" you say, and smile.
No message, no grand part to play,
only the worn-out, stinking stage
where people already mad go madder,
worshipping themselves all the more.
They order mirrors from some hell or other,
spewing plastic fires.
The Plough limps across the sky,
looks down, spits, and moves on,
tapping an empty coffee mug
for the umpteenth dose of survival.
The other primates sleep in boxes:
alphas, omegas, and the bare ones in between.
The wind rattles at the garden door.
A drunken idiot howls beneath the hedge.
Tomorrow, tucked into a suit, he will grin,
sell, buy, and babble as he wrecks things,
making content with an AI monkey-frame,
piling rubbish onto rubbish with greater force,
hallucinating a bright future for money.
Here is this one — no one, sleeplessly vacant,
thinking: the whole thing can go to hell,
shat on from a very great height.