Suspending Disbelief

I have problems coming to terms with fake words

and visual effects, even on a movie set,

I know the motivation for war can’t be peace

and that jet fuel doesn’t melt steel beams.

 

But if I listened to chaos I’d feel guilt for starting a hurricane

every time I squashed a goddamned bug.

By the way, Schrodinger hasn’t fed that cat

in ages and I’m positive he’s started to rot.

 

Tongue twisters, riddles and paradoxes only succeeded in pissing me off:

The first chicken’s parents were not of his species;

God could, of course, make a boulder so big He could not lift it,

and, hopefully, immediately afterward He’d build a trebuchet

and send the stone tumbling down on the dumbass who asked that question;

Sally might be a renowned paleontologist

But she picked the shittiest spot to sell sea shells; and

a woodchuck would chuck all the wood it could if a wood chuck could chuck wood

and regardless woodchucks can, in fact, chuck wood, so

go measure it and leave me be.

 

I don’t believe anymore. I don’t trust

any of the shit scientists and piss-poor philosophers and bumbling bards

and I don’t trust her. The next time

her eyes drift down and away and she lies to me,

says that she’ll love me or that she cares or that she’ll be there,

I’ll repeat what I say to those assholes, and my alarm clock,

“Fuck off not again.”

 

 

 

 

 

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