That Not Unappealing Cockney Gecko

Others seem to worry whether they’ll be loved or have
the money or the health to be or get the rest
of what they want before they have to die, but you
ridiculously sit there wondering about existence – not
your own, particularly, but the loud unfathomably spot-on
thing itself. Reason would suggest you put this on the shelf.
But reason is what got you into all this to begin with.

The sunlight flares like warriors: armies of it rampage
through the windows and cut up the couch and threaten
to unseat the rest of everything. But what is everything?
And there you go again. You’ve eaten pretzel sticks –
they worked a bit – crispy salt licks stuck into
a bit of peanut butter helped – distracted you
from feeling like a nutter – not, to tell the truth,

that’s what you’ve felt like. Existential winter makes
you melt like dirty snow. Police Procedurals
parade in one unending flow of reruns on the TV:
but you are puddled into such incomprehension that their
urgencies seem avant-garde. Too cliché to say it’s all
a theater of absurdity: there may be nouns and verbs
that might be useful after all: laughter at the fall

of sense has such a hollow echo. Rhymes will follow
nonetheless as you watch yet another car insurance
ad which features that not unappealing cockney gecko.
There have been earthquakes, yes – and there
are friends of yours in deep, deep trouble: and you
and they and what you can’t, you think, help but survey
as “everything” remain as fragile as a bubble.

.