"The New Style"

by FukinSpookie Tue Jul 30, 2024 11:31 am

Out with the old, in with the new. Though, of course, starting anew and afresh brings more of the same as the year before. It's cold out here. Everything is still, and there's not much of anything happening such as it was there ever were anything going on. Dead as December. That's January for you.

Where have all the good times gone? Not that long ago the autumn leaves crunched underfoot with the sound of impermanence. Now I'm ankle deep in snow. The mail can fetch itself if it's that important.

I might die today. Suicide's in the air and it's cold to the touch.

Suicide's in the air. On my breath whenever it fogs from my mouth. In my pockets. In my heart. In my mind.

I bet- no, I know it's on the grill of that truck noisily rumbling down the state highway. Asphalt trash. It guts up my otherwise happy middle of nowhere in two, like it were roadkill. The dead raccoon splattered flat by passing traffic in the middle of summer or spring.

Look. The least it can do is give me something back from what it takes away.

Suicide's in the air. I'm thinking about it while the bills and junk mail shiver in the mailbox. Fuck them. Closer now. Seems like he's in a hurry. He should be more careful. The roads are icy. Be a shame if he crashed.

Who cares? Do you? I don't think you do either. That's your prerogative. I don't. Not right now anyway too cold to care. It blows passed me in a hurry. It's gone. The moment's gone. Suicide's still in the air. But I'm not dying today. Maybe tomorrow. If it's warmer.