cesspool

tethered to wooden foundations,
our necks kept down, focused
on the sunday rags.

restless inside, what beckons?
why do they rally?
what's the fuck with them?
too-long weekends, methinks.

Hoisted, hosed, the pressures,
collecting empty suitcases;
what arrival are we always expecting?

no destination, soft grass,
other cities,
chequered picnic cloth, champagne and
berries overlooking the city.

firecrackers in the stomach.
the tenous sandblasting.

The distant smell of wine
guzzled by incessant roadfuls.
Getting nowhere in those white labels.
Mediterranean, New World.
Who could stumble on a New World these days.
Now, that would be an adventure
worth telling,
and not this drown,
not this grind,
not this buttered banality.

Then, we stick to the plot,
staining the sunday evening,
our cups to the brim
- loathing ourselves inside -
since there's hardly any other option.

where did it all started?
how did we get here,
throwing the empty bottles onto the canals?

Is life this cesspool?