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Thursday, 8 December 2016

Ennui of the never-never...

Ennui, and it’s hard to breathe,

your lungs heavy on your belly,

your belly heavy on the earth’s centre.

Oh! I can barely be bothered…

Ennui, and the stink of boredom wafts upward,

tainting the whole house with lethargy.

Oh! I can barely be bothered blinking,

stretching, crossing ankles;

and time becomes a torturer;

time becomes a humper

diligently humping away the seconds.

Oh! I can barely be bothered living;

I can barely be bothered being.

This ennui, this state that makes you pick out

your own gravestone,

mark out the plot with string,

tap into place with a mallet a little crucifix,

a little sign painted white and bearing your own

careful lettering that says:


Wind in the grass

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