Oh, dread poet of despair, cast me to the river Styx so that I may meet my lover.
One by one, two by two, we walk this land infecting one another.
“Plague is a state of mind!”, said the abstraction,
but I am not so cynical; though, my life never mattered.
Didn’t you know that we’ve been wearing masks for years?
Didn’t you know that mine is always on?
And what is there for men to fear?
It’s death I say we’re after.
Because I judge them not on what they say;
it’s what they do, those actors.
Men are put to death every second of every year
for longer than I care to remember.
Guillotined, dismembered,
maimed, and altered,
by superstitious inquisitions,
raped were their sons and daughters.
Hug your wife; live your life;
but do not lie to Father.
Drink your gin; live in sin;
but pay respect to Mother.
His seed, the source of all abstraction.
Her womb, bless-ed cradle and coffin.
Plague is a state of mind!
Yes, we’re all infected.
And —
I sincerely hope
that
you
drop
d
e
a
d
.
.
.
