Sweating to an unusual degree.
The symptom of an incurable disease.
Face covered, slippery
and thick like ghee.

Life’s a looper.
Looping us in a maladroit manner.
Panic.
Perfidious and manic.
Just like Rococo,
I think I’ve had it.

I’m taciturn,
clinging to the stanchion.
A hawser round my neck
and it starts to burn.

Three.
The time left for me.
Pressure’s building,
I start kicking my feet.

I’m not erudite
to a nocuous life.
Sketchy but squarely.
Intestate as there’s nothing that’s mine.

Two.
Now it’s no use.
Whoever finds me
will see a downy and nude coiffeuse,
hanging from a noose.

Muckrake and heartache
put me in my place.
Now the illness,
the rest it would take.

One.
It’s almost done.
The augmentation of spoliation,
the border to order’s gone.

I hear the stentor
of my old, genial mentor.
Winnow me out because I know…
I know there’s no “better”.

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