Back Matter

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we are blank pages of stone

     material as to a sculptor,

and so we chip away at each other

     with the violence of a hammer,

and no artistic endeavour,

instead of digging for the divine

soul in each other,

     we just dig

to waste precious time and matter;

where the war front is fought from behind;

filling the pot holes of our lovers

     into which we throw our waste

of daily inadequacy--

we break bread

     with heart break,

now only as a last supper for fools,

     or hopefuls in fairy tales,

we drink the wine to piss down the drain;

     we sublet the blood and brain

of our children

without any foresight

we'd like to suffer;

     we like to see others suffer;

we even pay for the pleasure,

or for what other purpose

do we hire other human bodies for,

like a talentless author hires a ghost writer?

to fuck in an AI version of desire;

banging away at soulless intimacy

like the need to feel the heat without the fire;

     or else we live our lives

as a dig at a neighbour,

     or from afar to some such member

     in our unrequited jealousy;

we fuck so others can see how good we are,

instead of in discovery

     of who we are

when we aren't bent over;

we fill our days with the regular,

instead of writing something new,

     it is all just back matter,

lazy nonsensical chatter,

such as this poem

     a poet's brain shits out

in his constant natter,

     natter,

          natter

our waste will be the goldmine of archaelogical digs

in the future

     of a digital kind;

what the ancients dropped in their public latrines

     we dump on social media

Published 30 April, 2026

In Human Excavation >>