Nearly everyone’s gone home. It’s the smallest hour.
I’m staying on as a memory, tippling in this zombie bar.
My cigarette is a fuse; I’m waiting for my skull to explode.
I’ve got a single bag and I’m hitting no particular road.
My privacy was invaded when I was wrenched out
from the womb of certainty into the air of doubt,
like being in a limbo or in a bardo.
Not eating animals is my only credo
but I would chew people like chitterlings;
That’s what they deserve despite their sufferings.
If a deity appeared I’d scoff it too
for being cruel, frigid, untrue.
Another’s blasphemy can’t apply to me;
whatever they decree my speech will be free.

It may be verbal diarrhoea; it’s all I have left.
I used to spend cash, - what sadist invented that?
I did the same thing day after day after day after day.
I was bought cheap, a wage slave in the fray;
my boss grabbed more as he killed the planet.
A crapitalist, he was respected, applauded;
on the Bumptious Business Club, the BBC,
he preached the doctrine. Fickle fish in the sea
don’t notice the water; it’s assumed misappropriation,
avarice and fraud are as normal as respiration.

That’s how it is; only an idiot resists.
Evil has won when we don’t believe it exists.
It would have been different if I’d been a woman
as I should’ve; no-one asked me before I was born.
I might have refused. I could’ve been stubborn.
Will they remember I was here after I’ve gone?
I’m digging a hole for myself. It’s the graveyard shift.
I struggled on in jest though the ride was rough.
I did my best. It wasn’t good enough
living the dream, dreaming a life.
Boredom slices through me like a knife.
If I passed out now it would be a gift.