What are bin days for? Days are where we live They come, they wake us Time and time over Bins are to be happy on Where can we live but bins?
There’s something laughable about all this. Gardens are like years. Everything in them dies, eventually.
I listen to money singing. It’s like looking down From long french windows at a provincial town In the evening sun. It is intensely sad.
Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, Shaped to the comfort of the last to go As if to win them back. #AmazingSpaces
That wide stare a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can't come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere.
I slave at filthy work, that might Be done by any book-drunk freak. This goes on ‘till I kick the bucket: FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT.
I work all day, & get drunk. Waking at four, I stare. Curtain-edges grow light. I see what’s really always there: Death, a whole day nearer.
But not for me, nor I for them; and so With happiness. Therefore I stay outside, Believing this, and they maul to and fro, Believing that
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