I don't accept
that who I have sex with
is important to you,
just because you
choose to believe
in a 2000 year old myth.
Choose not to believe
in your 2000 year old myth,
if who I'm attracted to bothers you,
because I can't change
who I love.
I won't change
who I love
to make you
feel comfortable
with your choices.
Actually, if you want to know
what the truth is of
what I think of your disapproval,
I can put it very simply,
fuck you!
Some days, I wish I was dead,
get it over and done with,
avoid the pain of old age, and decay,
finish it for good.
Some days, I read about people's deaths
and I feel envious of them,
they are the lucky ones,
nothing to worry about now.
Some days, I think it is a struggle,
and I'm one of the lucky ones,
I have a lot to be thankful for,
god knows how the poor get through?
Some days, I think about the God delusion,
it must be comforting giving up free thought,
not having to worry about life,
just follow myth obediently, unquestioning.
Some days, I think about the future,
and think, how many years do I have to do this?
It was great when I was young,
everything seemed new and, kind of, fun.
Some days, I am bored out of my mind,
the best years of your life, they say,
I laugh, every day just repeats,
and then you die.
Some days...
I don't want to live in a world
where every day
is declared a national emergency
because the nightly news
has to make its ratings.
Australia Day,
when privileged white folk
congratulate themselves
for a life well lived,
while the indigenous people,
the poor,
and the homeless,
live rough,
locked up,
or hungry.
God is
my parents,
and their parent’s,
Conditioning.
God is an anxiety blanket,
we forgot to put down as adults
God is relief,
I don’t have to think.
God is delusion,
only my god is true?
God is Santa Clause,
21st Century.
God is everything,
some say.
That’s code for nothing,
let’s face it.
Life is a sexually transmitted terminal disease,
I know this is glib, but it is not far from the truth.
Four score years and seven seems like a lot,
and for the first score that is probably true.
But then it goes so quickly, you'd be excused
for your head spinning and a sense of disappointment
Pervading your old bones, as you creak
as you get up and walk to the grave alone.
All of your yesterday's folding up and collapsing
like an origami narrative disintegrating and falling to dust,
lying like soft ash under foot,
the only evidence that you ever were.
Big blow, fffffffff and you are gone,
and everyone you knew before you,
shadows in your memories
all fading to black. Dust, we all become.
