Clutter: It is not all waste

I’ve somehow learned to equate
With Better
Everything that is x equals not-me
Automatically qualifies for
There used to be a river, at least
Between me and the other side of the river
But now, there are just
Buried Under Clutter
Like Fossils Waiting to be Discovered
Except Fossils aren’t really waiting for anything

A surplus of weight also known as waste
Also Known As pigs and garbage dumps
Fattened up for the kill
Profits are made
Even after you croak
Underneath all the lard and a plastic world

An array of all the wrong words
Arrangements lacking in style
Letters – gaudy and overdressed
Originality – scarce
Because Everything has already
Been Done Before
A collage of eras
All setting out to do the same thing
All trying to outdo the one before
With Better
Why is it so complicated to just

It’s really simple that
all things
boil down
to basics

All numbers can eventually cancel
Themselves out
Never actually cancelling themselves
Only potentially and theoretically
All probabilities are just that

We used to create words and languages
- Now – We just sell ourselves
As by-products
Sustaining a system based on disorder
Not noticing that we are
- Now – Mostly a people disordered
And we use spell check
Because we can’t even remember
The order
Of a few letters

Why would we?
What are letters but mere symbols?
Reflections of our intent

We are frazzled, underutilized and over-expensed
We buy laziness to gain time
Time to fill with stagnancy

Boredom will be the death of us

Already, every 40 seconds
One of us Calls It Quits

It is either adapt
To a pseudo world
Where you may find
Somewhere at the top of the heap
In fake tits
And happy actors
In endless screens
And silent apathies
Where art is Under-paid
And Unpaid
Even though it attempts to
Make visible
The Clutter
In a world
Where there is
Only Clutter
And the only places left that are real
Are our own escapes
Devices such as Cheap Drinks
On the Tongues
Of One-Night Stands
And Any place Away from
The Dissonance
Even if you must live alone
In your own head

And what do you say to someone who feels better off dead?
Except Laugh
Laugh at the world, for it’s a circus
Where clowns are the saddest spectators
For they are the ones who see it all
While the rest think it’s a show?

Written by Diana