A futility of person,

once unworkable,

defiled, like the leather skin

of a shammy turned gold.

 

Ruminated, like mucilage,

stuck to the underside of your

carnality.

Still there,

but supurating quietly.

 

To think that there are those

who do not mind

the effects,

the affects

of their utility

of futility.

 

Bones, limbered

and convinced

of sincerity.

But an obvious

misuse, of

use.

 

The shammy’s

gold,

continues to

deflect the rest of the day.

The rest of the year …

of the belted continuum.

 

Remaining,

but agog,

a cortex of

alchemic refusal

and acceptance;

confounded by

the senseless

utility of futility,

the ordacity of

amour propre.