Hey, you:

Is it true you read, this, and the next

words and written thoughts, wrought

by sleeplessness, insomnia and sorrow.

Since this rotten world is consumed by

maggots, some with guns, the others

driven by envy, none silenced by having

to sit behind a Triumph, a Remington,

(mine is an Erika from the GDR) but

shouting on X, like crazy birds.

Who has control over the red button,

that will stop nonsense and sense alike,

in one sudden instance.

Aye, the worst dreams came true

arriving both from the east and west,

their messages driving holes like tubes

drawn by bullets in grey matter:  cheese

it  has become, infected by the craziness

of bulls – they must be bulls – that

disguised themselves as double burgers with

mayonnaise.

Now my cramped fingers find the words

silence and peace and know these must

differ from sleep without dreams.

Drager Meurtant, Dec 25, 2023 – Dec 12, 2024