Jack Fucks La Wally (i)

I decided to dabble in brute minimalism. A rhyme scheme was sure to follow. I predict three, four parts all told. Let’s see how I do.



Years from now. Easy technology. Free communication. Free speech. Open borders, then disappearing. Clean energy. Clean streets. Work efficient. Jobs redundant. Long vacations. Long lives. Space for living. Bettering, beautying. Time for everything. Free time.

Walls torn down and better built for no new walls are needed. Painters toiling on a single canvas for few empty walls remain. Games and stories that let you live in every past and future. Woodworkers turning trees to toothpicks as the forests give refrain.

What’s your weekend? What’s your week? What’s your play and poison? Nature, nurture, new or old or love or lust this season? Poetry or prosody or groan and grunt and gone; solitude or crowd or creed or rules or none – anon.

Some they make things. Some they break things. Some content to stare. Some they hate things. Some they mate things. Some they just don’t care. Some they gamble. Some they game. Some go wild. Some go tame. Some live here and some die there. Some make their house in Everywhere.

Living simply some find sating. Some they live for complicating. There’s still illness, there’s still crime. Still we’ve so much fucking time.

Some love nature. Some love souls. Some love people – most are those. Talk and trade of words and wiles. Minds and bodies, seeking smiles. Some make friends. Some make love. Some prefer below, above. Some they give it. Some they take. For love or money or goodness’ sake.

Love and lust. People’s pleasure. It’s the Trade. They barter leisure. Makes it easy. Makes it clear. Less confusing. Less to fear.

Most work safely. They last longer. Still they can be weaker, stronger. Tall and buxom, strong and thin? What flavor your favored sin? Some fuck fortune, some fuck fame. Some play every sort of game. Some are married, some all but. Some just like to rut.


~ by davekov on 3 June 2012.

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