decline, stagnate

on a friday i decline, in the weekend i stagnate; funny you should ask 'cause you eat and yet you starve, looking dull behind those inch thick spectacles. a myriad reasons i could cite for being uncontent, unconvinced, unpleasant, unmarried, unscrupulous; girls always turn their backs on me. rejection, sometimes, makes you even stronger, self sufficient. so another weekend's coming and you have no plans, no friends, no nothing. devoid of attention you turn to yourself and then you no longer decline. you don't even stagnate. you decay. you just decay. and i would help myself having you over for a beer maybe, and some pointless, stupid conversation. but i can't look past your spectacles, which bring back my deformed and sad looking image. i can't look past the little cookie crumbles tightly adhered to the outskirts of your ugly mouth. what went wrong i don't know. i guess we could only multiply our miseries. i'll walk you to the metro station, if that makes you happy. it will be the only thing i have done for someone in the last five years. i can't look past. another weekend is coming. i stand up and see all pods are empty. shitty pods. little cells of mediocrity. and you standing there. i can't look past. another weekend. i don't decline. i decay.


ian svensson (Detroit, MI, 1974)