Tug Dumbly - Morning Thoughts of a Sentimental Sociopath

Morning Thoughts of a Sentimental Sociopath

When did you last sleep

without your phone, 

humidicribbed

in its viral halo?

You wake from a dream

of a greasy old steam engine

named the Orson Welles.

A cheerful dirty faced

woman engineer

pulls you aboard.

What can it all mean?

Everything and nothing.  

Your acts of Microheroism 

have earned a badge -

loving puppies and flowers,

not stepping on ants,

as selflessly brave  

as saving a kid from a shark.

But then you go and razz it all

by cutting a stranger on the street,

for the arrogant cock of the cunt’s head.

Where’s the consistency?

So much petty you can’t rise above.

What’s a psychopathic saint to do?

Pull prayer beads from the arse

like ben wa balls?

Sing a song of pity?:

‘I don’t wish to suffer

so I suffer proper and good

just turn and turn like a threaded screw

in a rotten piece of wood’.

You medicate on melancholy,

sauce yourself in black bile.

Fuck this rancid menu.

The sun’s a fried egg to be

spatulaed onto the plate of the day.

Just have some breakfast, son.