21st Century Emotional Palette, Part IV: Family, Order, Class, Phylum, Boredom

Faced with Boredom’s aping of the gray inevitable
—ashes to ashes—
the mind, anticipatory, grows yet grayer;
—dust to dust—
but not the dust that dances on sunbeams,
nor the dust that feeds unfurling flowers,
but the dust that mounts on boxed mementos
with a stifling grayness that chokes
the young and old, curious and nostalgic, alike.

Boredom, that repressive despot,
rules his torporific realm with,
as entrenched politicians do,
the heavy hand of inaction.

Roads pot-holed and undrivable,
homes unpowered and decaying,
we waste away consumed with the
raucous ferment of empty thoughts,
more inane than cable tv,
that dog us as we toss and turn
the sleepless nights and days away.

All across the barren landscape
no pleasure is to be found, nor
release from vacuous shackles
which chain us, like toil-for-naught serfs,
to the seconds that tick away,
an ice-pick at the castle walls
of our crumbling sanity.

Boredom, that artless puppeteer,
grows fat the while, insatiable,
on the plentiful harvest of
our unhappy tediums.

Boredom eats away at sanity, dissolving the mind
like a pot of chamomile does a lonesome sugar cube.
the soporific diluting sweetness to nothingness
‘till life is but a bitter brew, a tepid tea, that tastes
of desiccated herbs trapped in Pompeian cellars,
of dust that fills the unswept corners of warehouses,
of yellowing novels musty with oblivion,
of basement archives stocked with technical manuals,
of incense-scarred altars lost in strip-mall antique shops,
of asphalt concrete slowly setting in vacant lots,
of near-suicidal doses of crushed sleeping pills,
of the day the vast, ancient, beautiful universe
crumbles
into the void
like a cheap clod
of dry dirt.

Boredom (state)
Bore-neo (country)
Bore-on (element)
Bore-gon (monster)
Bore-ccoli (vegetable)
Bore-tulism poisoning (infection)
Bore-minicide (the murder of the Divine Reality)

If exposed to excessive amounts of boredom,
insanity, like a malignant melanoma,
grows darkly under the sickly skin.

Oh Mighty and Cruel God, Boredom!
Your earthly ministers,
the long and idle hours,
lull us to sick stupor
with slow Sunday sermons
of your Hellish judgment!

We tire.
Lord how we tire.

Please.
Hear our prayer.
Hear our plea.

(chanted gospel-dirge)

Oh Boredom, architect of mental police states
Oh Boredom, deterrent of our dormant delights
Have mercy on our souls!

Oh Boredom, diagnostician of new-found ills
Oh Boredom, bearer of “6 months to live”-type dread
Have mercy on our souls!

Oh Boredom, professor of the moral vacuum
Oh Boredom, preacher of hurt feelings as pastimes
Have mercy on our souls!

Oh Boredom, father of our yet unborn children
Oh Boredom, digger of their accidental graves.
Have mercy on our souls!

Boredom is a one-trick pony—
crippling with a single toss.

I wander the house
directionless, bored.
I run through options
of things I could do,
but soon discover
wandering around aimlessly is my peak ambition.

Things seem quieter,
emptier, sadder.
I stare at the space
between the white walls—
not beyond, but at—
because it seems, comparatively, like the thing to do.

Sometimes I’ll sit down
and sink into sloth.
A half hour later
I’ll wander anew,
as if things have changed,
but, of course, the floor plan of my trusty wandering hole
and the cosmically empty space between the white walls

never

ever

changes

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