Obsequious Lassitude

Boredom with the mundane routines of every day life.

Another Monday morning-after,
assimilated by the doldrums of our life,
stupefaction at war with reality once more;
and I’m marooned on the isle
of murky sentiments, subservient to vacillating—
lost is an understatement—proclivities…

Why can’t I PhotoShop your face?

Radical receptiveness, a wanton cycle
that is endemic and acute.
It hearkens to yesteryears long since
frayed out of the farthest corners—
atramentous corners—of my baby blanket;
nescience is bliss, and so these portents
are kept under lock and key…unremittingly.

Would I acquiesce; would I articulate?

Hearing these intimations and listening to them:
These are tasks that I can’t entrust you—
not in good faith, never in good faith.
Star-crossing was never intended for banality,
after all, and you’re traipsing the path
of every other colloquial nobody
that has gone before.