We're all already dead, taken out back,
Behind the woodshed. Raked across the coals!
Forsaken, broken, nothing but a joke, man!
Understand that this comedy ain't divine;
Just a drama designed to be forgotten
Like that thing I can't seem to remember?
So many memories, churned out in bulk,
Labeled with invisible ink and paint
Then thrown into an aging boxing ring
Where there won't be a whistling referee,
Only an empty space, devoid of sweat,
Devoid of blood, of crying out in shame!
Oh, how contrite we all are, how sheepish!
Grinning like some unpopular children,
In the audience, watching with wild eyes,
Behind wireless teashades and loose hips,
Stuttering helplessly, all the meanwhile,
Over time, that emptiness fills right up
In memories, and dreams, and flights of fancy.
_____ vs. Blank
