Here in the more
casual
and living familiar
hell
of the bored and cool
twenty
first century, it seems
we've all
decided—finally
to do something a little
less-trying
with old Sunday morning.
But interestingly,
nothing much—in the now
rather confusingly and
boundlessly
compounded interim—appears
to have changed
regarding how violently
a fresh
stuck and bled Friday
night
continues to strain
as it—ungraciously still
wailing and
draining away—keeps relentlessly
gesticulating
forward—in a desperate
and particularly
unseemly
and unmodern—
desire to forever
and always
have already
meant something—by
today.