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