when you slave till complete stupor

and you just feel strapped and hopeless


stupid conveying stupidity

without any new idea

or hidden miracle to save you from mediocrity


you look back and try to sum up achievements

saying “you did it” “you are someone”


but you’re down and feel innocuous

inoffensive, banal, chimerical


and you render the page

and your somatic miserable body

drinks water

to cheer up the code of a chrysalis

reclaiming the banning of slaughtering

chanting abracadabra

fooling the king of copulation

ejaculating bananas from the tropical balcony

into waving nuns’ vaginas


and you continue

because a rainbowing aftermath of magical mushrooms will not save the day

from conjured suicidal ideas


looming, angelical teenagers fill the tormented hours of your bread

and the clock is running

and you’re late, and you’re outdated


searching for comforting sadness

and its intestines