Enigmatic rabbits in the Sink
Come play with me
My dolls are old, frayed and tattered,
Worn
from years of neglect, having resided
in long forgotten corners
of my room,
for too many years.
I finally heard them counting yesterday.
The rabbits, I mean.
Dad doesn't believe me. He says you need to be older,
in order for your mind
to be properly attuned to the wisdom
of the rabbits in the sink.
Or maybe he doesn't.
It's hard to tell these days.
Everyone in possession
of the faintest shred of common sense
or general cognitive ability,
has left this city
to rot in it's own filth
aeons ago.
Leaving behind a group of babbling, degenerate
sociopaths, losers and lunatics,
all squabbling with each other
in some pathetic, ultimately vain attempt
to attain some resemblance
of "normality".
Whatever that is.
And the rabbits in the sink are crashing everywhere
Like meteors
sent by some vengeful god
Who has finally decided
not to give a fuck
about reality
Won't you please play with me?
My dolls won't kill you.
Or maybe they will.
It's hard to tell these days.
Humanity seems to suffer from a collective over-abundance of questions.
Tantalizing conundrums
lurk behind every rotten corner
bizarre enigmas stalk the fields, hunting for unsuspecting minds,
ready to shred our preconceptions
at the slightest sign of neglect
or maybe they don't.
maybe they really don't care
that's the only really sensible thing to do
the world is an apple that's rotten to the core
being eaten by a worm
called humanity
or maybe it isn't.
if the world is an apple that's rotten to the core, I must be equally rotten
being a result of my environment, and a prime
example of my species.
Or maybe not.
It's hard to tell these days.
Won't you please come play with me?
I have dolls made of wood, made by people
To teach their children to treat other people
Like tools for the purpose
Of personal amusement
The rabbits keep on counting, out there in the sink.
"Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-two"
Maybe my tattered dolls understand the meaning of the numbers
Maybe the message of the rabbits is really
Meant for them
A coded communiqué
That only dead things understand.
Or maybe it isn't.
It's hard to tell these days.
Poetry by Lalando
Read 576 times
Written on 2010-02-09 at 11:34
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