The world’s come to an end.
Old men killed my last friend.
Old men hide what they hoard
Like goblins encrypting gold.
It’s a myth that old men are wise
That’s more or less a fool’s guise.
Truth is grandfathers go insane
As though panic shares a mutual brain,
And even with incontinence
They seek control of continents.
They brag about their health
And inflate the value of their wealth.
They talk tough but shake to the bone
When the grim reaper’s on the phone.
Old men wage real imaginary wars
With everyone except guarantors
And by killing those they don’t know
Add microseconds with which to oppose
The long night of their own souls.

Everyone dies here,
Everyone’s born here,
The animal body leaps in,
The water body leaps out,
Foam washes in and out,
Spirit laughs
In the face of the spray,
Spirit goes in naked,
A swimmer emerges
On another shore.

Better a blown transformer
Than the heart stopped loving.

Better a blown fuse
To a restless muse.

Bitter the burn
Only felt in the urn.

Better a grid failure
Than to evade Cupid’s arrow.

Better a power surge
Than to have no urge.

Behind all the darkness
Begins the undressing.

Better a blackout
Than to let passion die out.

Between these outages
The light of the sages.

Better downed power lines
Than to ageing, resign.

The night is electric,
The body dialectic.

It’ll be dark forever
And touch will be never.