Of Woe Be [never] Gone

In truth, my dims are sins of my own.

And roaming coverage

And broken reception

And technologies multiple

Simply multiply

The universe’s disdain

For my pain.

No kindly gal

For the mal hombre I am.

As if spam were my relation

To the world:

Unbidden, unwanted,

Entirely lacking in potency.

An irritation and uglification

Of all that we be.

And in these spam-like relations

Of ablutions disgraced,

My race to find sense

In all that has damaged me

And all that I have damaged –

That wickedness of me,

A tree of hollow branches,

Rotten to the core of being,

Unable, any more, to see

Nor brightly ring, in any way!

Is clearly lost so long ago:

No come and go nor life nor love.

Just quantities industrial



Be [never]



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