I’m Not Quite Sure What This Is

I’ve exhausted my use and rolled down the shutters

As my hand scrambles for the lock

And fumbles for the door sign:

“Sorry, I’m closed.

Now, all of you,

fuck off.”

Yes, fuck right off.

I’m done with this fucking sideshow.

Outsized and overrun,

Cementing bricks with greyhound-blend binder--

Oh! You didn’t know.

Well, I’m sorry to inform you

that Mr. Woof, Ms. Pooch and co.

broke their forelegs on a swerve--

yes indeed, and their last moments were wasted

looking up from the pyramid floor

as the fake hare

with its fake ears

and its stupid fake arse

zipped away in mechanical indifference.

The gun barrels close in:

“Fuck off, hare”, said Mr. Woof.

“Go fuck yourself”, said Ms. Pooch.

It was quick.

And routine.

--

What the fuck am I even writing.

Brain half-lit.

Freewheeling, freeform scribbles, free from inhibition!

I’m so tired as I write this

But the scratch of ink on this (honestly) much-loved book is all I have

To sink the last of my wits

And drown in a yearnful, quasi-death.

This book has known deeper lacerations.

This is a holiday.

So, anyway, fuck off.

This isn’t a poem.

Just a request.

And take your circus with you.

You can keep your fucking hare.