My infatuation as a passion with life passes into old age,
yes, this body ceases to enjoy its youthful flexibility, pain
instead enters these joints, inflames and disables the working parts for good,
no one said growing old would be fun, live it up while you're young, you'll be dead
for sure inside a corpse, if you wait for your chance to do the things others
asked you not to enjoy because of their so-called concern, selfish desire
to keep you safe, alive, all in one piece, no parts or phantom limbs missing,
understand, parents care, they try real hard to keep you alive, to survive
and procreate like them, so you can have children, care for them as they did,
to say that is the point of life boils all meaning down to ridiculous,
impossible standards, if we make it alive past eighteen, their job done,
on that note, you must learn to fly away as far and fast as possible,
no time to take your time, your life will be over by fifty, job well done,
after that the body declines double-time fast compared to twenty-five,
so while your body bakes, roasts, broils in the oven let your hair down and dance,
at thirty, the body declines until fifty, then you are flat-out fucked,
pretend you are twenty again, still, your body knows as you become stiff
at the joints, bend over, touch your toes if you can, if you can't, your body
says to the world, you're old, you're done, you're a has-been, your time in the sun, gone,
simply accept you're fucked and move on, what you want makes no difference no more,
if you never became who you wanted to be by forty, no one cares,
oh, they might patronize your sorry-ass but you, my friend are flat-out fucked,
no one hands out awards to poets unpublished under sixty years old,
we admire youthful verve, swerve with vim and vigor, a jigger and swivel,
inflexibility loses the game, you're done, you lost your mind when young,
tough luck, others lost more in war, at the office, they lost limbs or their soul,
how we praise the writers under forty, twenty each year with accolades,
life passes as you wait in traffic, in gridlock on the tollway of time,
if you wait for your chance to ride a motorbike that glides past as you wait
for your turn to move up six feet, a full fathom down, your watery grave,
enter the game awake, awoke as fuck, no fool gonna pluck my feathers,
passion passes, subsides after fifty, take pills, stay erect for four hours,
answer the door, the man in a cloak with a scythe doesn't want your money,
simply submit body and soul to the reaper of the harvest of lives,
sit back, relax, play games in your own livingroom, never accomplish much,
enter old age bitter you didn't get it on with your babysitter,
still, you got laid enough to count on just one hand, what a joke, game over,
if the shoe fits, wear it like a badge of honor, you laughable dumb-fuck,
no one wanted to fuck with you because you were insane in the membrane,
the fact you have no kids proves you failed to provide the world with your birthright,
only you feel different, you twisted the facts round, rationalize defeat,
on the one hand, you are godparent to your friends' children the world around,
let it be known, you failed to make the world better, you worked hard all your life,
despite this fact, you failed as a human being on so many levels,
and so, whatcha gonna do now that you're fifty, become a volunteer,
given you have no skills, nothing of practical value to help others,
exactly, you can't do anything you wanted to do when you were young.
No comments:
Post a Comment