chicken little?

I fear you’ll think
that I’m insane
my brain in pain

not sad
not glad
nor feeling bad


no good rhyme for that, I fear
No matter when we disappear
why bother with a souvenir?

the auctioneer

sells an armchair

just who’s bidding on this shit?
there’s nothing you can do with it.

no more can I stay stolid
things once solid
now gone squalid

what can I do
to make things better?
write a letter
knit a sweater
climb in a trunk
get really drunk
simply crawl into a ball
and try to be so small
so small

all seems in vain
king chaos shall reign

aye, I sigh.
the end draws nigh
we all will die

You don’t believe the sky is falling
until a chunk of it falls on you.

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