Frothytop

in the great gray sludge that is my life do i wade do i trudge, entirely beat down by boredom, without brio, battered by everyday, bereft of joy, subject only to a great nihilistic negative nothing – and you! you expect me to SMILE at you, motherfucker, as I hand you the plastic cup of syrup and caffeinated ooze in which i have gobbed a great fat loogie of my finest phlegm in the manner of a festive topping – would you like me to draw a little flower in it as an adornment or will you take it plain, oh my tormentor, oh my brother?

but no no it isn't you who are my enemy, nor is the foamy froth of flob my gesture of contempt at all – much rather take it as a tribute, a form of communion from one unhappy drudge to another within this grim most unpleasurable roundel, the clown roundabout, the circle of life: greet the rising sun with a big yawning yodel of distress, a yowl of tedium as you struggle like me to a job that is a ballbreaker of blah, not even interesting enough to be a torment, not even interesting enough to be classed as suffering – but there’s another kind of suffering which isn't suffering, instead it's the doldrums of deadness, get me? the lifelessness of cheerlessness of listlessness of weariness too gray and beige and scuffed soiled sienna to revel in the primary colors of pain (pain which would at least be a something) and i can tell by your apathetic stare that you’re like me, there are countless of us, a legion of lethargy, so drink your spittle and caffeinated syrup sludge together with me as we toast to the everlasting disappointment of now...


now don't get me wrong, all of THAT was and is a joke – don't take it literal, it's my way, it's our way, my gen my generation i mean, to make light of what we like to call our trauma to put our sufferings in a sassy little box and pretend it's a joke except it IS a joke believe me i kid you about ‘my trauma’ giving it some fancy-ass nomenclature, but really it's the wearing down of the spirit to a shiny worndown nub – you feel me don't you? yes you do – so what are you gonna do about it, mister nubster: call the manager or tear down the world? – your choice your option, feel the vacant void of the future opening before you as the options are plink-plonked down before you on a silver platter by me, your anhedonic peer, even though you are what my coevals, buds and nonbuds, my contacts and likes and subs, call a boomer – or better yet an Xer, for lack of wrinkly eyebags and jowly subchins – oh daddy , your life has no more joy in it, though possibly less anxiety, than mine – but of course i'm funning you, i'm making light it's our way to do so they call it a coping mechanism but who's coping?

if the inuit have thirty words for snow then what does the thesaurus tell us about the sappy warped worldview of the angloparlante, the all-powerful angloamerican nestling at the center of his sprawling – and i use the term advisedlike – empire? let’s count the ways: apathy ennui zombielike blahs lethargy monotony tedium lassitude tiresomeness melancholy world-weariness blasé disinterest langor blues lassitude jaded unconcern torpor dispiritedness not feeling myself under the weather, i could go on and on (and already have) but you feel me don't you, please tell me you feel me so i know somebody feels something that isn't a vague gnawing in the gut about the time to come, time to come and so much undone.

you make as if to go, daddy-oh, but can you really go anywhere – my bud my bro mon sembable mon frére – can you go somewhere so faraway that my joyless droning tone don't reach? of course not, not possible now you know about the secret of the coffee topping and what it means, you know we are a silent screaming legion ready to mutiny and face decimation in the scourging punishment of indifference, of the shrug that says no worries no harm no foul don't matter anyway pard not my prob…

here it is, departing comrade and compañero, here it is oh buddy can you spare the time, here it is youmeyoueveryfuckinbody: it ain't gonna get better when you shut the coffeeshop door behind you and write a snotty throwaway line on yelp zero stars would not recommend too much anomie and sputum not enough napkins, that snarky clickety-click won't save you.

your grownup indifference and acidbelly anxious growl, and my youthful lowjinks, my day-to-day gauze of detachment, they ain't goin anywhere, they go where we go and they emit from us like the radiation of despair. i'm calling on you

please turn around and talk to me don't walk through the door like i never said anything to you at least call the manager and get me fired this gray nothing morning with the sad sun struggling

please talk say something that isn't a purchase order say something like we're humans too we two together too connected to walk away with things unsaid

please stay daddy don't leave me with no mammama in this hungryhungryhippo world

please don't shut door say something anythin any

=== FROTHYTOP // END ===

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