dancing that old head bobbed dance,
with the will-o-the-why snicking snap,
interest levels on low,
slow hung gait set to slack-jawed lope.
looping cadence crooking “none of it matters”
“none of it matters”
“none of it matters”
but only if all that artifice,
is arbitrary armor around ace-ish-ness –added the eighties cartoon.
fuck you – added the ninties
yeah, I get you – the early aughts
shit, on the money – the now.
soft-step,
triplicate quivers trickle,
tracing tracks true,
as that old head bobbed dance,
thick with the will-o-the-whose,
with that cafinatted stare,
of a hundred unslept mornings,
all lurching monsterously overhead.
that too hot to taste,
sip then slip to wake.
ache for the dime-souled days,
when “none of it matters”
and they’re all looking with daze-struck stares,
at sad sack of ain’t giving a shit.
language – the eighties cartoon
not me – ninties
errr… – aughts
fuck, right again. – now.
