Humanpigs in their Folly

It concerns me not – the pain
For I have danced a masque of deaths
With devil’s lot – I’ve lain
‘Tis unknown which of the Macbeths
I most resemble
From the play
From this ensemble of dismay
That we call living – when it’s not
It’s more an improperly tied knot
Of misperceptions – misconceptions!
About both young and old complexions
And what entails – what assails!
The human-pig living contraptions
In their folly

Oh shit – golly!
The sheer intensity of melancholy!
I swear it makes the Earth go round
Whenever she feels like she’s just a rock
For us to hound and run aground
Until the next tick of the clock
And gears are grinding – fears are rising!
About the ultimate fate of the universe
Over a little thing – so small
Situation’s not adverse at all
It’s humanpig lives we’ve forsaken
And those that still live to partake in
The celebration of the suffering
Soup is boiling – blood is sputtering
O’er the asphalts – of belligerence!

Was it my fault?
That silly humanpigs in their ignorance
Played their game of regicides
Whilst I watched – bemused – a pain that resides
Inside our genes – a revelation to uncover!
We humanpigs are just machines – and ’tis much better not to bother!

***

Lucy Fars: absent-minded author of short stories, pretentious poetess and scenery-chewing eccentric recluse. My prose oscillates between the extremes of incomprehensibly over-elaborate extravagance and that ramble-y manner in which people think and talk, and usually deals with the internal struggles of its characters; my poetry leans on both the technical and experimental and tries to foster a sense of dark intimacy. I hope it works. You can find my worthless work through the link: https://solipsistsolace.wordpress.com/index/

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