What could be finer

What could be finer

I do not know,

I can not fathom

the utility of a happy poem

If you’re already happy then the worst is yet to come

And when the pointlessness strikes

your cat no longer likes you

when the world alters its hue

somebody else’s transplendant eternal love is not the cure

It’s their face that sickens you!

Their gait that only distracts you from your shopping and daily ailments

your working class heart can only take fourteen sledgehammers

to the chest

then it stops caring

Happiness to those predisposed can be an illness

their deluded discourse and ever smiling and flowery dresses

a social misdemeanour

An unexamined life is not worth living

And most of the examined ones aren’t up too much

They only go so far,

stop before the trip gets real interesting

Your happiness is not worth exploring to me

not just in its vacuity,

i see only cover-ups where your swiss cheese life needs more than band aids,

safety pins and sellotape can only hold so many travesties up,