The parcel wrapped in butcher paper lies on the doorstep.
Leave it there.
It will be rancid when three days have passed.
Those pipes that groan when flooded with heat.
Let them waste away.
They’ll burst when winter comes eventually.
The harvest is over and the potatoes
Lie rotting in the fields, fetid.
Choke on the air and let the smoke fill your lungs.
Let the metal stain your skin and the grit scratch your eyes.
.
Remain soporific, then watch your muscles atrophy.
The gravity of the situation is that
imminent is the rot of the flesh of the bones of the corpse
who smiles from the grave – a fool’s paradise
excellent…I share the fatalism
thanks!