The chrysalis cracks at First Bell.
Beep. Snooze. Reset.
Quiescence crumbles at Second Bell.
Get the fuck up.
Obstacles pop up only to be crushed,
downtrodden under heel
or just brush your fucking teeth
with the Animals do a dance
get dressed, you, not them.
In summer every rag sticks and hangs,
in winter, bulks and doesn’t breathe,
pick a garment,
any sack is the same,
and drag it over head,
back to bed to say
out the fucking door towards sunshine, grandeur, and the taxing modern office life
that lathers thick, rinses poorly,
times five days a week,
carrying us all in fits and jerks towards infinity,
restarting us fresh as fucking daisies
with First Bell and Second Bell–
the bells, the bells.
Each ring signifies the end of everything:
feel it in your chest
that we are one beeping step closer closer to the end
of all this
each time the alarm goes off.
We get there
day by day,
with every crack of the chrysalis
and by deft erosion over time attributed to the snooze button:
daily death by awakening;
the slow lethal crumble of quiescence.