Everything is So Sun-Drenched and Awful
To: Dr. Stuffy-Pants at Pretentious University
From: That seems like a lot of fossil fuels to bring a gummy bear here
Date: When I was in high school, there were no dicks in Shakespeare
Subject: Everything is so sun-drenched and awful
The purpose of this poem-memo is to avoid injecting steroidal beauty into a leaf. We all pull pistol triggers and expect heart-shaped balloons. Dating is nothing more than situating emotional manipulation at the apex of life experience.
I also have the image of a contortionist in my head. Who gives a shit about the Miltonic space of ash? At the end of the day, everything feels like a reductivist trap.
I don’t like robots.
I’m not texting.
I’m looking up territorial sounds of barred owls.
What’s the nature of your doubt?
There’s some spurning going on here.
Are we really trying to define
The catalyst of an interior thing?
What’s the narrator trying to avoid?
Everything is a myopic approach to thematics. People in sweaters everywhere are trying to deconstruct the binary. We’re all gonna die. But what does it all mean? Isn’t it obvious? The man is what must be broken.