from The Dance of a Thousand Losers
© Geneviève L. Walsh, 2017
to see you again.
I love what you've done with the place.
I especially love how every trace
of Teenage You's been sandblasted
and replaced with
There's no room for melancholia in this colour scheme, it's
It's Femme Banal,
it's the sunshine after The Little Death.
It's the weight, it's the heft, it's the rosy cheek,
it's the meek inheriting sweet fuck-all
and the bold getting richer as we speak.
But 'ey, you've gotta laugh. Gotta end each sentiment
with a winky face
and an exclamation mark.
So the glasses clink
and the wine gets sipped
and the rosy-lipped masses laugh at our quips. Oh yeah,
the compliments come in droves,
and with all my heart I silently scream,
'Yeah, this is all very nice,
but why are we wearing clothes,
and why aren't we drinking Jägermeister in the dark?'
This façade is really wearing thin and I'm sick to death
of the definitions her and him. Why have we not
got out of our collective minds?
I'm sick of this normality lark. So,
in lieu of a bunch of flowers or a sonnet,
answer these two questions:
why are we wearing clothes
and why aren't we drinking Jägermeister in the dark?