Waste My Life

Waste My Life


sleep, boredom, gossip, cruelty
imaginary feuds and small resentments
various, complex plans that amount to nothing
at some point, every poet has to admit art is just a distraction from the boredom of life

every morning I get dressed
and I walk past the road outside the Salvation Army
overflowing with toys and clothes and plastic crap
I think they probably deserve it for being so explicitly homophobic in their core organizational values

I work all day in a bookshop
each night when I come home
it’s dark, and the rain is falling
covering the world in black diamonds
some days I feel so deep inside my life I don’t think I’ll ever get out again

I never read the Russians but I have read most of the Babysitters Club
I can’t remember the meaning of poetry
other than it’s a broken telephone
with which to call the dead
and tell them a joke

life is great
it’s like being given a rare and historically significant flute
and using it to beat a harmless old man to death with

I used to think the more something hurt, the more meaningful it was
but I never learned anything useful from pain
I just drank a bottle of wine and tried to fall asleep
when you’re unhappy you can’t think
pain is just boredom with the stars turned up

there’s not much I like in this world
I’m always walking away too early in a conversation and having to yell apologetically back over my shoulder

I don’t think good art comes from happiness either
but who said good art was the point

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