how to cope

here is a poem about the apocalypse and bodies that ooze

everything is totally fine! i’m thriving! my tiktokreelshort skin regimen
has given me snail-spunk-mother-of-pearl-lips, those i kiss my three husbands with,
shattering the heteronorm with each incredibly brave act of queer representation

everything is terrible! my wife keeps pegging me in the ear-hole
and my handsome girlfriend won’t return my trillion text messages 
about our gorgeous trust-fund children who hate me and wish me dead

actually, everything is medium vibes, rich with tepidity, as i weep
in the undergrowth, watching passers-by as i smoke a fat joint 
and wander if i’ll be able to walk home, if i’ll manage to make it back

i’m joking about it all! i am! i don’t get high, mum, i promise (not anymore)

everything is fine, i guess. i’m coping, i guess
i drink protein shakes now and then shit mucus into the toilet bowl with gusto:
are all of these facts related, and to what extent are they true?

i am losing track of veracity, of justice, of meaning
but my face is slimy and my lips are dry, and my three husbands aren’t real
but vile offspring suck on my tits with leech-teeth each dank night, drawing blood

and i don’t know how to be, be without it all, cope with all of this,
all of this junk and dust, this flotsam bullshit, this meaningless hellscape, 
this burgeoning horror they call the television-screen as human-shapes burn

maybe i’m not joking: i can’t bear it! how can anyone bear this?
i’m sinking into fantasy each morning, bursting apart with anxiety every night
and there’s no way forward, not anymore, not even one, nothing clear

all that is left to do is moisturise your chest, so wet, so deep
that you’ll end up able to reach in
and pull something out, something glorious

Image Credit: Fear in The Woods by Simberg, Hugo - Finnish National Gallery, Finland - CC0. As ever, please like, restaaack and subscribe my posts if you’re a fan. The algo is my monarch.