Look at’em all malding
like there’s no tomorrow.
Little do they know there is a tomorrow,
and it’s a moldy sponge
in the demiurge’s mouth.
Natural causes ready themselves
single-file in the void our lovemaking leaves.
Something of a creature of habit, are we?
Certain states are only preferable
if you’ve all but given up the ghost
of Christmas Future.
Can I get some linguistic finesse, please?
Dust to dust emerging variously
victoriously from the background noise.