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.

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.


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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