Just screwing around today.
Nothing important.
Nothing imperative.
No lives to save.
No lives to deny.
Nothing to do but count
the minutes as they go by.
Screwing around time is often
spent in the wallowing of memory,
the disappointments of the present
and the vacant void of just not
giving much of a steamy crap about
anything. Prior motivations
are
lost in the ether of the mundane.
Time spent screwing around is
wasted time.
But it’s my time to waste if I
want to.
Who’s going to stop me?
Not me.
No lover. No sweet kisses to fill the time.
So screwing around it is.
No impending doom.
No important decisions to make,
other than where else to waste my
time, my life, tonight.
No safety of a lover’s caress or
kisses on the head.
So what does it matter if I waste
the time so preciously provided through
the magic of evolution, the universe and
the cosmos. Of all the millions and trillions of
things to have happened for me to arrive at this
point in time is impossible to fathom.
So I will shit on the moment.
Shit right on it because I can do that if
I so desire. And right now, it’s a screwing around
sort of disenfranchised mélange of “meh” and over powering
ennui that has me so precociously interested in
screwing around.
Screw it.
This poem is just screwing around.
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