Step on a pile of dog shit on the street. It’ll get stuck in the grooves of your sole.
And your soul witnesses a pedo at work. What even led you to that porn site? So deprived, and dried, and dead of you to do so.
So you give a few coins to the beggar on the foot bridge. She’ll pocket ’em. Buy with ’em. And they’ll ride the silent hand of economics but may not show on the statistics. Most good deeds don’t show on official papers. But you hope they’ll turn around and they will.
Work on a file of work sheets. You’ll get stuck in your chair ’til Saturday.
And your gray day hinges on a core of hot, steaming love that radiates warmth to the littlest corners of your ageing being.
So you send a few sweet messages over cyberspace. She’ll receive ’em. Hope with ’em and dream with ’em. And that love will ride the frantic hands of time but may not show on her replies. Much of love doesn’t show on instant messengers. But you hope it’ll turn around and it will.
Celebrate a day on Christmas Day. You want to be stuck in the stupid, raucous party ’til next year.
But in your heart thrives a fear for the future doesn’t recognize man’s celebrations. The future ignores them. Goes on and on and on, riding the merciless hands of history with you helplessly dangling on its tail. The future doesn’t reveal itself, not even its cruel eyelashes, on Christmas Day. But you hope things will turn around and they will.
Dig on a pile of spaghetti. Ground beef will get stuck in the grooves of your teeth, which you should’ve taken care of with more consideration for when you’re 50.
So you suck that succulent, spicy sauce all night long–what a sucker you are. Sucking on that tangly spaghetti, putting it in your intestines and putting on the weight. Intestines threaded with noodles.
Happiness is over.
Your gray day hinges on a core of hot, steaming love that radiates warmth to the littlest corners of your ageing being.