the lost years by Charlie Mathews

somewhere between giving birth and making money
between making dinner and being a mother, I forgot about —
my self.

capitalism anaethetised me
the great sleep set in.

shuffle. shuffle. mortal coil.
karōshi.

but death smells like poppers.
sal volatil

it wakes you once before the big sleep
to see —
[like Google’s AI dreams]
— each leaf etched against the bluest sky.

-[X]-

before you die. you should live alive. be yourself.
stand self proud.
and, extend the middle finger of both hands
to the banshee that comes for us all.

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