A Form Of Liberation

One day,
you will wake up
and know you are alive
because it fucking hurts
and you will realise
you live in flesh,
in failing flesh
and your best days are behind you.

Was that your last kiss,
your last screw,
your last good shit,
your last punnet of fresh strawberries,
even though they tasted of tapwater?
Is there any point
in getting interested
in the latest serial drama?

You will have seen
no evidence of god
in any of this,
but prepared a list of complaints,
just in case.
You will get better
at complaining:
you will become your mother.

All the things that mattered
will not matter:
a form of liberation
you needed fifty years ago.
And you will hate the young
and hate the old
and hate the people in between,
to save time, on general principle.

Take my word,
it will be easy to get old:
a downhill journey,
steeper than gravity.
Enjoy your ride,
for you won’t meet
the height restriction
when you’re six feet under.