Dump the numbness, and they'll dump you.
The numb.
Days are measured by decay.
Nights are measured with cigarettes between stubby yellow fingers
and prurient confessions offered with a girlish titter on Facefuck.
Morning comes, and the flesh is feelingless.
Who believes in the soul these days?
Not even the religious.
Days are commute times and empty calories
and handfuls of antidepressants.
What is sleep for them but the fitful massage of the limp,
jumping, twitching bag of their choking hearts? What are dreams but
shopping carts filled with shit they don't need
and won't make a whit of difference to their lives?
Diets and boner pills and sleep pills and car leases
and handbags and the latest perfumes and Farmville and
eight hundred thread count and antibacterial toilet cleaner
and hasty handjobs and malls and traffic jams and two weeks'
vacation and the son's doing drugs and the daughter's doing her teacher
and the square footage isn't enough and the grass isn't green enough
and the mortgage is too large and his dick is too small because
HuffPost says so.
Time and space are known. Mystery is best served in paperbacks.
God is a butler, and that ache deep, deep down can be cured
with a sixer and a handful of e.
Numb the dumpness, and they'll numb you.
The dump.
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Digital Art: Denizen by Shawn Michel de Montaigne
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