It's three in the morning.

Disdain

I wanted a fight.
To struggle and climb and falter towards
the knife in the dark.
I wanted to be burned alive and set myself aflame.

Instead, I found.
A fool that couldn't know the road he grew up in,
Without a fucking phone.

Thousands and thousands of plastic bags,
Shining on a tree branch, on the brink of day.

A world that sees hard fonts as stylish.
10 hours lockdown just to do paper works.
In a white, plain, dull, clueless space.
But hey,
there are plants at each and every corner!
I wonder if they'll all go mad,
if all the ferns die simultaneously one day.

I hailed a cab like everyone else because,
There's no reason to walk on these streets.
And an old man stands on the edge of walk,
piles and piles of cardboard and bottles on a cart.

And now, as I prophesied.
A puff.
A fist to the air,
How the feeble amber feeds upon polluted air.
Nicotine, lamb, garbage, humid, rust, grime, copper, everyone and someone dying.

Another drag, a slower drag.
Losing hearts to little blinks and tabs on a cracked screen.

Deep inhale, burn it to your nose.
The black Cadillac across the parking space just woke up.
Yellow eyes squint into lines, asking.
'You got all your needs in a mind's reach. What are you glooming about?'

'I don't know.'

Go ask the 27 smokers next to me.
With sadder eyes,
with soft bellies,
gray pale eyes,
polo shirts,
leather shoes,
fake watches,
superficial containment,
more-superficial desires.

Throw the cig butt on the ground,
stomp it, pick it up again in fear of being finned.
So the city street stays clear as wanted.

No need for 300 years into the future,
floating cars or robot men and women.
No need for super computers and birthing tools.

This is dystopia on earth.