Wet January

‘We have invented happiness’ and blinks.

The last man watches nature from his couch,

forgets that he’s in fact the missing link.

He rises up, does the Bethlehem Slouch,

grazes the butt-ends of his days and ways

hunting for what’s left of self-control.

All evolution stopped with this malaise;

when hominids discovered alcohol.

If he could, would he live his life again,

promise all the same dull resolutions?

That question’s always dragging on his brain.

No answers, no acceptance, no solutions.

Abysses do not gaze or answer back

and God’s a hopeless dipsomaniac.